


in the ashes of everything

by ikuzonos



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Past Child Abuse, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikuzonos/pseuds/ikuzonos
Summary: You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.Or, Goro Akechi leaves Shido's Palace with his life, and the hardest part is what comes after.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro & Phantom Thieves of Hearts, Akechi Goro & Sakura Sojiro, Akechi Goro & Takamaki Ann
Comments: 61
Kudos: 248
Collections: Quality Persona Fics





	1. someone has to leave first

**Author's Note:**

> \- ...Anyone else reading Richard Siken lately?  
> \- Where appropriate, I’ve chosen to use “psychological” and “berserk” in lieu of “psychotic” because I hate how Persona 5 misuses the word.  
> \- Regarding Royal: There are no spoilers for the third semester or Kasumi’s storyline (she’s not even in this), but there are spoilers for Akechi’s new confidant. I don’t remember how much of the information in it was revealed in the vanilla game, but there are definitely spoilers for Rank 8 in particular.  
> \- I know there is not enough time before the election results for this entire thing to occur. I say Fuck Atlus. It’s my recovery fic and I get to choose the timeline.  
> \- I would not recommend reading this if you are triggered by suicide in any way.  
> \- Aside from the tags, I’d say it’s safe to warn for emetophobia and mild metaphorical gore; the former especially prevalent in the scene in Akechi’s apartment.  
> \- There is absolutely no romance/shipping in this unless you really want to count one line implying that Sojiro has feelings for Wakaba.  
> \- I just really love Goro Akechi. Someone get him a goddamn therapist. Wanted to have this finished for his birthday, but uhh I’ve written 20k total as of posting this and there’s more to go still.

The first thing he registers as he regains consciousness is the scent of coffee. 

Realistically, that should be second or third, or perhaps even fourth to the agony radiating through his entire body, but the more he focuses on the peculiar scent, the less it hurts. In truth, he’s so used to the pain, having been so intimate with it since he was fifteen years old, that it feels more like a memory than something he should be preoccupied with. Ah, but that’s so dramatic, isn’t it?

...Has he really reached the point that he’s bothering to critique his own internal monologue? Maybe this is more serious than he believed initially. How tragic.

“...brought him _here?!”_ comes a booming voice that he can’t quite place. It’s an older gentleman, certainly, and the name is on the tip of his tongue, but every time he reaches for it, it gets further from his grasp.

How annoying.

“The clinic was closed,” is the only reply the booming voice gets. The responder must be a girl, no older than himself. He strains to process it, because he _must_ know who this is, and why they’re talking about him (aren’t they?) but it’s all foggy in his mind.

He can’t remember where he was before all this. There’s something sharp poking him in the back of his head, but no matter how much he leans into that feeling of destruction, all he can remember is coffee and pain. He doesn’t even know where he is.

Perhaps if he stays still, everything will work itself out. Still, the feeling of throbbing in his head is taking over much of his hearing.

“I don’t know what happened, and nor do I want to at this point,” the older gentleman says. If he cracks his eyes open the slightest bit, he can see the man pinch the bridge of his nose. After that, it’s too much strain to bother. 

The young girl says, “That miiiiight be for the best. Explaining this one would be pretty tricky.”

Without opening his eyes again, he tries to discern something about his location. He’s lying on something softer than a bench, but harder than a sofa. He tries to run his fingers across the fabric, but can’t manage it without feeling a burning sensation throughout his entire hand.

What happened? Why can’t he move? He tries to twitch his leg, but nothing happens. He just aches and aches and _aches._

“God knows this cafe’s secondary purpose is harbouring fugitives at this point,” the older gentleman grumbles, sounding resigned to his fate. A cafe? Something about _that_ tugs at the neurons in his brain, but not quite in the right way.

He’s close. He needs one more puzzle piece to put himself back together. Or at least, mentally. The salty, iron taste in his mouth is enough confirmation that he isn’t going to be running marathons anytime soon. Truly, the worst fate imaginable.

His head hurts so bad.

“We’ll run him over to Takemi first thing. There’s no explaining any of this to Tokyo General,” says a third voice. One that’s quiet, neutral in tone, but decisive. And it’s exactly what he needs for everything to click into place. His eyes fly all the way open as _loathing_ rushes through him.

“You…” he chokes out, seething.

Akira Kurusu’s head enters his field of vision, startlingly calm. The menace then has the gall to _smile_ down at him, like he hasn’t just cut up his last wish with a katana. “Hey. I see you’re awake.”

Goro spits blood in Kurusu’s face.

* * *

“I’ve never seen a patient less happy to be here.”

Dr. Takemi sits pleasantly on a stool next to the bed, one leg folded over the other. Her eyes are locked on the chart in front of her, but he gets the feeling that she’s watching him anyways.

“Believe me,” he rasps weakly, trying to convey as much irritation as he can, “I would not be here if I could walk.”

Dr. Takemi laughs shortly. “Oh, I’m sure. The hotshots on the other end of the train line would get a kick out of you.”

He tries to grumble, but it comes out as a pained sigh. Early this morning, Kurusu and Sakura had carried him to the clinic, despite all his attempted protests. It had been a lot harder to struggle, considering that he could barely move.

“I’ll run some tests, but I can’t promise much,” Dr. Takemi says, flipping through some papers. Her fingers are white from tension. “Just from a cursory glance, I can tell that your wounds are beyond any normal scope. It’s a miracle that you’re breathing.”

Goro closes his eyes and hopes that his broken body somehow radiates all the contempt he feels. The good doctor must be a right fool. How many people does Kurusu have wrapped around his finger? Disgusting.

There’s a shuffling noise as Dr. Takemi presumably gets to her feet. “Of course, this would all go a lot faster if you gave me some insight yourself.”

“I’m surprised Kurusu didn’t tell you everything,” Goro mutters, trying to scowl. It ends up hurting his face too much.

“Listen, kid,” Dr. Takemi’s voice is right next to his ear now, and the heat of it is scorching. “The only reason I know your _name_ is because you used to be on television three times a week. I don’t have a clue what you just survived. You don’t have to be honest with me, but it’d make getting out of here a hell of a lot easier.”

Goro sucks in air, despite how much it makes his ribs want to stab him. Somewhere, compartmentalized deep within him, is some speech about how he has no intentions of impeding the work of a public health official, and that she in fact deserves to be properly compensated, but it dies in his throat before he can even think about it too long. He’s not in the mood to butter up anyone.

“I get it. Look, you’re—“ she pauses for a moment to choose her words carefully— “acquainted with Kurusu. And everyone that little guinea pig knows is somehow involved with whatever bullshit he’s pulled himself into. I sure am. I don’t know what he _does_ with the thirty pounds of medicine he buys every week, or god forbid, where the money comes from, but I’m definitely an accomplice to something. And _you_ are much further down that rabbit hole than me.”

Goro stares at her for a very long time. Then, he rasps, “I lost a fight.”

“A duel to the death?” Dr. Takemi asks, and he can tell she’s joking. A macabre, but well meaning attempt at making him feel better.

Unfortunately, he isn’t fooling. “Yes.”

* * *

Within the next few hours, he’s able to sit up, but only when leaning against something else, and not for very long. However, he’d cite it as an improvement over this morning.

As it turns out, he isn't paralyzed, nor are his legs broken. However, having both knees dislocated is no fun at all, and having them snapped back into their sockets is somehow even more painful than the initial injury. His three broken ribs are nothing to sneeze at either.

Despite it all, he is most certainly alive, which is quite possibly the most infuriating part of the entire scenario. How hard is it to run and leave someone for dead when they _ask_ for it?

A very annoying voice in the back of his head tells him that these _are_ the Phantom Thieves he’s dealing with, and of course they would do anything to disrespect his final wish. Although, it isn’t his final wish anymore, considering he hasn’t been shot to death by a cognition of himself.

...You know, something that happens frequently to normal people.

He lets out a tight breath and tries to use the muscles in his face to move the damp washcloth on his forehead so that it covers his eyes. It goes horrendously, as one may imagine, but Dr. Takemi notices and completes the action for him. It makes him feel extremely pathetic, and he wishes she’d just let him struggle.

Why everyone won’t just leave him be is beyond him. Would it not be far simpler to let him sink back into the recesses of the earth? He can still smell the engine oil that lingered in the air in Shido’s palace.

Instead, he lets Dr. Takemi slip him another painkiller, and hopes that this one is secretly cyanide.

* * *

“There’s no performing surgery in this place, and I doubt you want to go anywhere bigger than this, so your ribs will have to heal on their own,” Dr. Takemi says as she hands him a paper bag. “You’ll take these painkillers with your meals, and one before bed. There’s more detailed instructions inside.”

Goro bows his head; anything further than that would likely send another jolt on pain through his body. “What do I owe you for this?”

Dr. Takemi waves her hand. “It’s all taken care of. Just get some rest, okay? If you notice any pain in your ribs, stop what you’re doing immediately. And do your best to sleep upright.”

“I cannot allow you to do such work pro-bono—” Goro begins. However, Dr. Takemi cuts him off with a roll of her eyes, and he closes his mouth.

She says, “Kurusu covered it. I have no idea what your relationship with him is, but he at least seems concerned for your well-being.”

Goro fights off a scowl. How much debt must he be in to that infernal man? He focuses on tucking the paper bag of medications into his coat pocket, in order to fight off suspicion. He’s amazed the good doctor hasn’t called the police nine times already.

It hits him in that moment that the familiar weight of his phone is not in his pockets. He checks all of them; no phone, no wallet, no keys. He grits his teeth. Which one of them went through his pockets while he was unconscious?

“He’s actually in the waiting room right now,” Dr. Takemi adds, oblivious to the ire radiating off of him, “Been hanging around since before you were awake.”

This time, Goro can’t hold back his anger. The good doctor arches a brow as his face twists into something resembling madness.

“You take good care of my little guinea pig,” Dr. Takemi says. It’s a threat. Goro nods stiffly at her, then exits the little medical bay.

Sure enough, Kurusu is standing by the door with that stupid, cocky grin on his face. Morgana is thankfully nowhere in sight. Sakura is crouched on one of the chairs, sweating. She doesn’t look at him, which doesn’t surprise him in the least. Were their situations reversed, he would no doubt do the same.

...That’s an odd thought. It must be the broken ribs.

“You’re looking better,” Kurusu says. He looks so casual that it’s infuriating; hands in his pockets, leaning on the wall with one knee bent. 

Goro holds up a thankfully gloved hand. “Spare me your meaningless drivel. Tell me why you’re here, or get out of my sight.”

Kurusu shrugs. “I was hoping for a ‘thank you’, but I guess that’s too much to ask for from you.”

“You explicitly went against my wishes,” Goro replies evenly. He can feel himself shaking, feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “I told you to leave me behind.”

In retrospect, it might have been easier to force his hand if he’d shot the button that triggered the partition wall. Seems like that’s one regret he won’t be putting behind him anytime soon.

Kurusu says, “Actually, you asked us to stop Shido in your stead. Which we did. All we can do now is wait for the ballot count.”

“I hate you,” Goro heaves. His ribs protest weakly, and it’s all he can do not to topple over.

Kurusu grins, because he’s an asshole, and holds up a very familiar glove. “Oh, I remember! I was there when you flung this old thing at my face.”

He looks down at his hands. The glove on his right hand doesn’t match the one on his left. Rather, the missing partner is in the clutches of the man before him. Annoying, but really not surprising.

“So you accept,” is all he says in the end.

Kurusu chuckles and stuffs the glove in his pocket. “I’m really glad that you’re doing better, but I think it’s a pretty bad idea for you to be duelling with four broken ribs.”

Goro snaps, “Three.”

“Is that much better?”

He scowls. This is such a waste of time. He doesn’t bother engaging with Kurusu anymore, and just puts his hand on the door. At the very least, he can go home and figure out what the _hell_ he’s going to do now. However, he doesn’t even get it open before Sakura speaks up for the first time since he walked in.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Goro can’t tell if it’s curiosity or frustration that gets him to turn to her. She’s still crouched in place, pointedly staring at the floor as her shoulders shake. He sighs. “And why is that?”

Because — he reminds himself too late — they stole his phone, wallet, and keys. He tries to keep himself collected.

Sakura shifts slightly in the chair. Her motions are reminiscent of a very stressed crab. “‘Cuz you got reported missing, and there’s a lotta people looking for you. If you just waltz on home, you’re gonna be looted and read for filth.”

Unfortunately, the girl makes an excellent point. The last thing he needs at this moment is an audience with anyone in law enforcement. The nagging voice in the back of his head tells him that he’ll turn himself in eventually, so none of this really matters. He tells it to shut up. There’s something thick inside him, and it’s all piling up in his lungs like dirt. Whatever it is, he hates it. 

Goro folds his arms. “Then what, pray tell, would you have me do instead? Certainly not live in this clinic.”

Sakura doesn’t answer. Her face is greener than her jacket.

Kurusu steps in front of him with a stern expression. “It’s a good thing you like Sojiro’s cooking, because you’re gonna be holed up in Leblanc for some time.” And his irritating smile returns to his face in the blink of an eye. Goro would call it a trademark, if he wasn’t usually so goddamn deadpan.

“And if I refuse?”

Kurusu, still grinning from ear to ear, like it’s his birthday, puts a hand on Goro’s shoulder. “Trust me. You can’t.”

In his head, he puts Kurusu in a chokehold and keeps his hands around his neck until he wilts. In his head, he shoots Kurusu at point blank range and leaves him to bleed out on the clinic floor. In his head, Kurusu is dead in the interrogation room like he should have been all along.

Instead, Kurusu ruffles his hair and shoves his fake glasses in Goro’s face.

Disgusting.

* * *

He lies on the spare futon, his back resting against one of the pillows he shoved against the wall, and stares up at the slats in the ceiling. Even in the dead of night, Leblanc smells like coffee, curry, and cat.

It’s raining. He can hear the water beating down on the roof and pavement outside. Distantly, he can recall a pleasant childhood memory of listening to the rain late at night, after returning from the local bathhouse.

The sound is no longer comforting. It makes him want to tear his chest open.

The only light in the attic comes from the very faint slivers poking in through the window, and the piercing green of Kurusu’s phone charger. He could probably toss a pillow at it to cover it, but he doesn’t trust himself to aim the right way. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to block it out.

Being forced to share the space with Kurusu is infuriating, and it would only be worse if Morgana hadn’t decided to bunk up with the Sakuras. Having to listen to the sound of a cat snoring on top of everything else might have just driven him over the edge.

This is insane. He should be long dead. Instead, he’s barely six feet away from the person he tried to kill not a month before. Kurusu is a fucking miracle, and it makes him furious. He should be long dead. 

They should both be dead. 

(He replays the scene in his head, cleanly. Shuffling uneasily into the cafe with Kurusu’s arm unwillingly slung over his shoulder. Boss locking eyes with him and staring holes into his soul. It’s clear he’s a father. A good one.

“Don’t bother sweet talking him,” Kurusu says, like he’s addicted to stating the obvious, “He knows everything you did.”

He shouldn’t be here. 

Limping up the stairs to the attic and staring at the folded up futon on the floor. Boss following them up to make sure nothing happens the second he turns his back. Rolling out the futon and everyone collectively realizing that Goro hasn’t been able to shower in days. Sorting out him being allowed to use the Sakura’s facilities in the morning.

Noticing that save for his jacket and mismatched gloves, the only clothes he has are the dressing gown and shorts he received at the clinic. Someone offering to let him wear some of Kurusu’s old clothes. Vehemently denying this. Demanding his phone, wallet, and keys.

Lying down on the futon and hating hating _hating_ it and the very thought of sleeping on the floor. His skin crawling to the point that he throws up on the floor. Kurusu delivering a glass of water to help assuage the nausea.

Aching.)

The glass of water sits next to him, untouched even now. His mouth is so dry he can feel sand manifesting inside it, but he refuses to drink from it. He’s already being forced to take so much charity from Kurusu. He will not add to it.

Goro stares at the bed in the corner of the attic. It’s hard to make out in the dark, but he can see the slow rise and fall of Kurusu’s chest. Does that idiot really trust Goro not to kill him in his sleep?

...Ah, there’s an idea. It’s not like it would be the first time.

He doesn’t have his gun anymore, and doesn’t like the idea of creeping down the stairs to find a knife in the cafe kitchen. He’ll have to rely on his own two hands to seal the deal. That’s fine.

Slowly, he gets to his feet, leaning on the wall to maintain his bearings. Once he’s certain that he’s steady, he creeps across the attic floor to where Kurusu is dead to the world. With any luck, he’ll stay that way. Goro shot him without hesitation before, and this is hardly different.

Though, he admits, strangulation is far more personal than a handgun.

He hovers over the bed for only a moment, watching Kurusu’s steady breathing. Then, he lightly pulls back the blanket covering him, and reaches down to close his hands around—

And Kurusu grabs his hands.

Goro flinches back, but Kurusu hangs onto him, staring up at him with bright eyes.

“Hi, Akechi,” he says, grinning. 

“You were awake this entire time,” Goro says. He tries to make it sound like an observation, but his voice is so weak and scratchy that it sounds pathetic.

Kurusu says, “Sure was. You sound really thirsty. Should I get you another glass of water?”

It’s a taunt. He doesn’t even have to think about it. Kurusu’s stupid, shit faced smile says everything. Goro jerks his hands away, lips twisting into a scowl.

“You should be dead,” he says breathlessly.

Kurusu regards him carefully. For a moment, it seems like he’s just going to stare at him in silence forever. Then, there’s a solemn gleam in his eyes. “Me? Or you?”

“Yes,” Goro responds, before trudging bitterly back to the futon on the other side of the attic. 

He sits there, leaning on the wall in the dark, and seethes in silence. He listens closely to Kurusu’s breathing, hating the sound of it. As the hours tick by, it slows, and he begins to snore ever so slightly as he truly falls asleep.

Absolutely certain that Kurusu is down for the count, Goro grabs the glass of water and drinks it all in one breath.

* * *

“What the _hell_ is he doing here?!”

Goro does not look at the congregation of the Phantom Thieves. He sits at the bar, freshly showered and perfectly upright, carefully spooning curry into his mouth. He knows they are all staring at him, waiting for some kind of remark. He does not look at them.

Kurusu says, “The acoustics in the attic would let him hear everything we say anyways. At least this way, we all know he’s listening.”

Sakamoto grumbles, but doesn’t keep pushing it. Though, Goro can make out a string of curse words underneath it all. He continues eating curry and not looking at them. It’s the easiest thing to do. He’s wearing his jacket over the hospital clothes.

His phone, wallet, and keys are sitting in his pockets again. Someone — not Kurusu, someone who doesn’t know he’s left handed — slipped them into the wrong breast pocket while he was sleeping.

Kitagawa’s voice is low and soft. “I do not mind his presence, though I imagine my sentiment is not universal.”

“He’s right there?” Takamaki says.

“Yes, we established this,” Kitagawa responds.

Takamaki presumably smacks her hand against the table. “And isn’t it rude to talk like he’s not?”

And Goro laughs. He laughs so hard that his ribs protest in his chest, and it only makes him laugh harder. He sits up completely straight, his head tilting back and hair getting in his eyes. He laughs until he’s on the verge of choking.

“Shut up!” Sakamoto snaps, “Why’s this so effing funny to you?!”

Goro turns around slowly. He lets his eyes glaze over them, but he doesn’t look _at_ them. He sees them as a blur. A collective. And he hates hates _hates_ them all. “I thought your decision to rescue me against my wishes was unanimous. And yet here you are, bickering about me. It’s hilarious.”

Niijima says evenly, “There is a difference between not wanting you to die, and being completely comfortable with you. Surely you can understand.”

He laughs again. It’s bitter, like the coffee served here. Like the venom in his veins. Like the thicket of poisonous plants in his chest.

Kurusu sighs. “Okay. Let’s clear the air. Anyone else have something they’d like to tell Akechi?”

Except for Sakamoto’s quiet grumbling, the table is quiet. Goro prepares to turn away again, to continue eating curry and not looking at them, when Okumura gets to her feet with a start, and something in his throat gets tight.

She pushes past her friends wordlessly, and comes to a halt directly in front of his barstool, facing him with stony silence plastered across her face. He has no choice but to make eye contact. Okumura stares him down for several moments, and when she speaks, her voice is perfectly calm.

“I despise you.”

“As you should,” he replies. He doesn’t know what he expected from her except for the cold, disgusting truth. The others all have their reasons to dislike him for one thing or another, but only Okumura and Sakura really have the right to pure, unadulterated revulsion. At any rate, the honesty is refreshing.

“I despise you, but I can recognize what circumstances brought you to this point in your life,” Okumura says, and he instantly feels his face tense. Feels the brambles in his throat coil around him until there is nothing left but thorns and blood.

“What you did will never go away. There is more blood on your hands than could ever be measured by any of us. I won’t pretend that I can forgive you for killing my father, or any other murder you’ve comitted. And I hope you won’t insult me by trying to apologize for it, because you can never earn my good will. But I understand the feeling of wanting your father to love you.”

With that, Okumura extends her left hand to him. Goro doesn’t shake it.

She waits for a fraction of a second longer than he expected, then returns to her seat in the booth. With that settled, Goro turns back around and doesn’t look at them. In fact, he doesn’t listen either.

* * *

He has four options.

Option one is to kill himself. He knows several ways to do it, just with the supplies he has on hand. Overdosing on the painkillers, slitting his wrists with a kitchen knife, drinking the drain cleaner straight from the bottle, tying together Kurusu’s bed sheets to make a noose, drowning himself in the bath. And would it not be appropriate to go out just like his mother, like a blip in the night, like another body bag in a sea of canvas, another statistic in a broken system?

Option two is to turn himself in to the police. There’s no explaining cognitive psience, or the Metaverse, or anything of the sort, but he can confess to being the culprit behind the mental shutdowns. The psychological breakdowns. Behind upwards of forty murders in the last two and a half years. He can provide them with all the testimony and evidence they could ever ask for, and once they’re done wringing his soul out, he’ll be given the death penalty. All he has to do is escape and retrieve his briefcase from where he stored it.

Option three is to kill Kurusu. Obtaining the proper means will be more difficult, but he has the prime opportunity to murder him. The Sakuras leave them alone together all too frequently. Even in his battered state, he could overpower Kurusu and finally, finally kill him. Then, Boss will call the cops before he can even bat an eye, and they’ll drag him away while he laughs and laughs and laughs. And once he’s in their custody, he can confess to every damn crime under the sun until they take him out of his misery.

Option four is to rot in Leblanc forever. Pass.

* * *

There’s a chess set under the bar in the cafe. It was a bit dusty when Goro first found it, but it cleaned up just fine with a quick wipe. Now, he plays by himself in the evenings, sitting cross legged in the attic with the board on the slightly slanted floor in front of him.

It’s a decent way to occupy his mind as he mulls over his decision. To kill Kurusu, kill himself, to run and run as far as his broken body can take him, right to the front doors of the police station. Maybe further than that, maybe on trains and planes and cars until he’s across the ocean and in a city where nobody has ever known him, where he can finally be a real person, as long as he figures out who or what is underneath all this skin and blood and loathing and bone.

Or maybe he’ll just move the white knight to E5.

“Check,” he says to either himself, or nobody in particular. Perhaps that’s one in the same. Perhaps he’s finally off the deep end. Wasn’t he already overboard?

Goro moves the black queen and pulls the offending knight off the board.

He studies it again, looking for his next move. This game is coming to a close. Both sides are running out of pieces, fast, and neither king is safe for long. He ignores the footsteps coming up the attic stairs, and lets his fingers ghost over the only rook left on the board.

“Of course you’re a chess player,” Boss’ voice rings out, and Goro forces himself to look the old man in the eye. There is hatred in his face, in his body language, in his voice. Because he knows, doesn’t he? He must still have candles lit in his chest for Wakaba Isshiki. Awful.

Goro doesn’t reply. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say to something like that anyways. But he keeps staring Boss in the eyes, because there is nothing else for him to do in this situation except perhaps blessedly drop dead.

“Bring the board downstairs, and I’ll verse you,” Boss says, already starting to walk away from him. “After you eat something.”

He considers climbing out the window and onto the roof. He considers running and jumping across rooftops until he’s not in Tokyo anymore. He considers swallowing his remaining medications dry and hoping that something kicks in before anyone comes looking for him.

He gathers the chess set and brings it downstairs alongside his nighttime painkiller.

Boss is standing behind the counter, pushing a plate of steaming curry towards Goro’s usual seat. The cafe is empty save for them, and the sign on the door has been flipped to ‘CLOSED.’ Nobody will bother them. Nobody will find his body.

He eats quietly and takes the painkiller. Boss watches from the kitchen, silent and thoughtful. It stings to pay attention to it. Goro focuses on the food, on the wood varnish, on the coffee beans stacked up on the shelves in pristine bags, on how if he’s lucky, he’ll die before Boss poisons him.

He finishes the curry quickly and takes his plate to the sink to clean it. It feels like the least he can do right now.

(Something cold and bitter in his chest and lungs, something thick and heavy, tells him to smash the plate over his head and run. He asks who’s head, and only gets a stronger urge to break it.)

Boss watches him the whole time. Goro feels the older man’s eyes burning into the back of his neck, trained upon him with the utmost precision. It’s somehow worse than everything else so far. It gives him the haunting feeling that he’s disappointed his father.

His rational brain, or whatever’s left of it, calls him an idiot for the comparison. Sojiro Sakura is not his father, and he’s never had a father to disappoint. Shido counts both too much and not in the least. He’s a father in blood, but not in the way that matters. A real father should care for their children. Isn’t that what every feel-good piece of media he delved into growing up said? Every book he desperately tore into as a child entrusted two good, loving parents to each character. Why then, was he not deserving?

Goro blinks. He’s staring at the soap suds in the sink, half scrubbed plate in hand.

Boss says, “What’s the matter? Police force never taught you how to wash dishes?”

It’s a taunt. Everyone in this _damn_ cafe is taunting him constantly. He needs to kill Kurusu, kill himself, needs to run and run and _run_ until there is nowhere to run. Until it is only him and the briny sea. That’s what should have been waiting for him. That’s what was under the engine room.

He doesn’t realize that Boss is taking the plate from him until he’s already tugged it out of his hands, and Goro _flinches_ back from him. He doesn’t know why. Nothing in his head will tell him. He grabs his wrist to try and stop it from shaking.

He could run. The door isn’t locked. He has his phone, wallet, and keys in his pockets. He doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need any of them, or their protection, and _never fucking mind_ his broken ribs. He could run right now and get _out_ of here before Boss and Kurusu and _everyone_ can bury themselves inside his bones and tear him apart from the inside.

Instead, he sits back down at the bar and sets up the chess board. After a minute or so, Boss joins him, pulling up a stool so he can sit directly across from him. Goro doesn’t speak, and instead keeps his back straight and his hands neatly folded in his lap. That’s what he was taught to do. It’s what he was always _supposed_ to do.

“You move first,” Boss says eventually, gesturing to the board. Goro doesn’t understand his patience. Doesn’t understand how Boss can stay so calm. But he doesn’t voice these thoughts, and quietly pushes forwards a pawn. 

Occupying the centre gives you a strong advantage, but a risky power play can lead to a quick defeat. Take up space, but not enough, and do _not_ go for the easy capture, because it will be a trap. Outthink your opponent before they can see through you.

They play quietly for some time, making calculated movements under the dim lighting of the bar. It’s dark outside, and Kurusu is usually back by now. Goro shakes his head. He has no reason to be thinking of Kurusu. He is playing chess. He takes Boss’ first bishop with his rook.

“What do you think of me?” Goro asks. He feels treacherous for even daring to speak those words. For daring to speak at all. And _what_ a conversation opener this is. Maybe if he’s fast enough, he can find a knife and jab it into his thigh before anyone can stop him.

Boss sighs and tents his hands while contemplating his next move. “That’s a loaded question, kid. Sure you can handle it?”

Goro looks into his eyes, as though the two of them staring at each other will explain everything he’s thinking. He doesn’t know his own answer. 

Boss takes it as a yes, and captures a pawn before beginning. “I think that I have no idea why my kids saved your life. I think that I know exactly why, and it’s because they’re too good. They see goodness in everyone, even when there isn’t any there.

“I think that they should have left you to die. I think that bringing you back here and _hiding_ you after everything you’ve done is insane. I think they did the right thing. I think that there’s more going on here than I could ever understand, and should be the slightest bit open to a new opportunity.

“I think that I’ve wanted Wakaba’s killer to rot in prison, away from prying eyes, until the death penalty is handed down. I think that I’ve wanted to find her killer and make them pay myself. I think that you killed her, and you almost killed Akira, and would’ve killed Futaba and all their friends too if you could. I think that I hate you.”

And that seems like the end. Goro tries to fight back the bile building up in his throat, the urge to retch all over his lap, tries to force it down into something productive. Something reasonable. 

(He was supposed to be dead long before this.)

But Boss keeps talking. “And I think that at the end of the day, underneath everything, you’re eighteen years old. And no kid gets like that without some outside influence. You’ve clearly lived through hell. And I’ll be damned if I just throw you out without ever listening.”

Goro frowns. That wasn’t what he was supposed to say. His hand hovers uselessly over the chess board.

Boss shrugs. “I suppose that in the end, I hardly know what I think. I doubt that helps you out at all.”

Goro moves his remaining rook, trying not to think about how badly his hand is shaking. About how much his head is suddenly pounding. Quietly, he says, “Somewhat. I’m not sure what I think of myself.”

“Huh,” Boss says, making his own move. “Checkmate.”

Goro blinks and stares down at the board. It’s correct; he’s absolutely cornered. There’s nothing he can do to run anymore. It makes the nausea in his chest grow. He doesn’t know how this, any of this, caught him so off guard.

He absently resets the board while Boss gets up from his seat and grabs a large, cloth bag from a spot near the door. He brings it up to Goro and lightly drops it into his lap. Goro half curiously, half suspiciously peers inside to see clothing.

“Since you won’t wear Akira’s old clothes, I picked up these for you,” Boss says, pushing up his glasses. “They’ve still got the tags on them. I hope they’ll fit, because you cannot wear that raggedy hospital gown forever.”

Goro’s speechless. He fumbles for words, for something small, some tiny acknowledgement. He doesn’t know anything at all. How is he supposed to respond to _kindness_ from someone who, by all logic and words of his own, despise him?

Boss adds, “And if you don’t mind handing back your keys, one of us could swing by your apartment and pick up some other amenities. Up to you.”

“I’d… rather go myself,” Goro chokes out. His voice feels foreign, like a stranger is in full possession of it. It’s different from all the false niceties he put on for interviews. It feels broken.

Boss taps his foot, apparently deep in thought. Then, he says, “I suppose we could arrange that.”

* * *

Kurusu snores. It’s irritating. 

Goro lies against the wall, trying to fall asleep, but finds his head too busy for that. Instead, he watches Morgana’s bright eyes flicker around the room constantly. It’s a warning, on the off chance that Goro feels brave enough to try something. He hates that cat so much.

When he was a child, he used to fall asleep in the orphanages and foster homes alike by talking to Robin Hood. He grew out of the habit as a teenager, relying on sleeping pills and exhaustion to lull him into the brief reprieve of a dream.

It’s worth a shot, anyways. Goro closes his eyes and calls out in his head. When he doesn’t get an immediate response, his lips curl into a small frown, and he dares whisper aloud, “Robin Hood.”

Silence. It makes his stomach churn. He doesn’t think he’ll get anything but nightmares from trying to contact Loki so late, but he could use some kind of affirmation. Even the smallest thing would be _something._

“Loki,” he murmurs. Morgana’s eyes flick towards him for a moment, but the cat doesn’t say anything. Loki doesn’t either. Though, that’d be inaccurate; Loki doesn’t _talk_ to him. He’s more of a feeling inside him, a sensation of fury and bitter agony that boils and overflows. If he does have words, they’re few and far inbetween. He prefers to be tangible. Robin Hood, on the other hand, is a connoisseur of the spoken word. For a while there, Goro couldn’t get Robin Hood to shut up if he tried.

And now both of them are silent.

His Personas should be part of his soul. They should not have vanished into the night like every other meaningful part of his life. Goro struggles to breath for a moment, trying to slowly calculate the possible options. Why would they have vanished so suddenly? It’s not right.

While flickering through his sepia stained memories, he latches onto something he overheard while slashing through Shadows in Mementos with the Phantom Thieves. It feels very far away, and almost like it happened to someone that wasn’t him. Like he’s spying on someone else’s thoughts through a grainy, distorted filter.

_“Persona users cannot have a Palace inside them.”_

Has something manifested within him since he was dragged back into the land of the living? Is that the choking feeling building up in his lungs, threatening to tear him apart at any moment? Weakly, he fumbles for his phone and clicks the power button. It’s dead.

Maybe he really should just kill himself. Kill Kurusu. Whatever.

He has no idea where his charger is — probably stuck into the wall in his bedroom, actually — but Kurusu’s phone is the same model as his, so he gets up from the futon and creeps across the attic to unplug and replace it with his own. Neither he nor Morgana stir.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually his phone lights up, with a brilliant one percent charge. Instantly, he’s flooded with hundreds and hundreds of notifications; missed text messages and emails and voicemails. Goro ignores all of them and opens the Metaverse app.

For a moment, he sits there and stares at the home screen. This will give him an answer, even if he doesn’t like it. And isn’t no answer better than waiting forever, unknowns swirling around him like moths drawn to a flame? He takes a deep breath. “Goro Akechi.”

_“Candidate not found.”_

He turns his phone off and slumps. It should be a weight off his shoulders, but at least the other option told him _why_ his Personas are missing in action. All this does is make him more confused. It’s frustrating and infuriating.

He crawls back over to the futon and pulls the blankets over him. He wants to set himself on fire and burn until he’s nothing but ash. Then maybe all of this could stop. But instead of digging for matches, he just tugs the blankets tighter and hopes the inferno will spark while he sleeps.

* * *

He dreams of the engine room, and his mother’s voice. It’s soft and sounds like bells ringing, though her words are harsh. She told him to be strong and kick back at the world, didn’t she? And he _tried,_ which will have to be enough.

It’s enough to put a smile on his face as he bleeds out like he was supposed to.

* * *

It’s been a while since he took the train. It hasn’t changed; he stands sandwiched between what feels like the entire population of Tokyo in a sweaty metal can. It sucks.

Kurusu and Niijima stand on either side of him, wrapping around him like boa constrictors. It’s allegedly to ensure he isn’t recognized by the general public. Personally, Goro thinks the restyled hair, fake glasses, toque, plastic raincoat, and rubber boots do enough on their own, but those were the conditions. And if it gets him out of Leblanc, then whatever.

He’s wearing some of the new clothes Boss got for him, too though. They’re comfortable and just a little bit too big, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about that. When he lived in the orphanage, his clothes were always two sizes too big and handed down or stolen from the older children. It had taken months and months to get used to wearing perfectly tailored uniforms and coats. Though his childhood is a deserted wasteland he would rather forget, something about these clothes feels like a familiar comfort. Reminds him of innocence.

Kurusu and Niijima’s presence as Goro raids his apartment are Boss’ requirements. “To keep you safe,” he’d said, but Goro knows that he meant ‘in line.’ The look in his eyes showcased everything Goro needed to know. If he dares harm even a hair on one of their heads, he’s dead.

Not that he’s stupid enough to consider trying to kill Kurusu in public.

“We want the next stop,” he whispers into Niijima’s ear as the station announcement plays overhead. She nods deftly and reaches around him to tug on Akira’s sleeve. Once the train comes to a halt, the three of them slip off the train and hurriedly make their way to the street.

The three of them look so suspicious that it’s laughable. Goro’s entire getup is a mess, Kurusu’s dark hoodie and slouched posture do him no favours, and Niijima looks shady just walking with them. Why nobody even spares them a second glance is anyone’s guess. Yet again, Tokyo is too wrapped up in their personal lives. As long as they don’t bump into the most important up-in-coming something-or-other, they should be fine.

Should.

Thankfully, Goro’s apartment building isn’t far from the train station. They enter through the back door, out of sight from most of the other residents. As he punches in his pin code, he says quietly, “I’m amazed nobody annexed my apartment since I disappeared. You’d think it would be the hotspot for evidence.”

Niijima replies, “According to my sister, the police are trying to keep everything on the down low. Of course, news of you being missing still got leaked, and there’s nothing any of us can do about that. Anyways, as long as we don’t stumble on an active investigation, we’ll be fine.”

It’s been a while since he’s thought about Sae. While they walk up the back stairwell, Goro tries to choose his words carefully. “Does she know? About any of this?”

She waves her hand. “She knows what kind of person you really are, but not that we’re sheltering you. I’m not ready for that conversation.”

It takes every ounce of his self control not to laugh. As if _anyone_ has any idea of who he truly is. Even he doesn’t know, and is loath to find out.

Kurusu doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to for Goro to know that he’s being made fun of inside his head. That _stupid,_ dubious smile…

Maybe he should just push him down the stairs now and get it over with. He ignores the automatic probe of who will be pushing who, and instead keeps his eyes on Niijima. It’s easier this way, even if he hates her almost as much.

He comes to a halt right outside of apartment 413. Goro automatically pats the raincoat for his keys, before realizing that Niijima has them. That had been another one of Boss’ conditions; Niijima specifically because they all knew that if he caused any trouble, she could throw him over her shoulder and break his arm. So, he dutifully stands aside and gestures for her to unlock it.

Niijima gestures for them to stand back. She pokes her head into the apartment first, then opens the door wide enough to let the both of them in. She points at Kurusu and says, “Gloves on.”

Kurusu breezily whips a pair out of his pockets. They’re a deep red, like the ones he wears in the Metaverse. Goro hates them so much. Hates that these two are the first people he ever has and ever will let into his apartment. Hates _him._ He pushes it all into a ball deep inside his ribcage and steps inside.

It doesn’t look any different than the day he left it, but it isn’t any comfort to him. It bothers Kurusu and Niijima too, judging by how they stare at it. The place is so impeccably clean that it doesn’t look like anyone’s ever lived there at all. The only furniture is what the place came with; a simple table and chairs, a sofa, and a coffee table. All of it is perfectly pristine; not even a scratch or crease to indicate signs of life.

After years of being tossed around the foster system, and always ending up back at that exact same orphanage, Goro could never get used to actually _owning_ anything. The very idea of disturbing the furniture felt so foreign for the first year he lived in that apartment, and after a while, he was so used to eating while leaning against the kitchenette that he just kept doing it.

Something something polished detective prince image. It just makes him want to be sick all over the sparkling tile, and ruin this entire operation. Wouldn’t that just be so _grand?_

Niijima clears her throat. “So. What exactly are we looking for?”

“Clothes,” Goro says quietly. There’s more — he actually went to the trouble of making a list — but the words don’t come out. The apartment still smells like bleach. He doesn’t know how that’s possible; clearly nobody’s been in here since he left. The dust on the counters is enough proof of that. Maybe he’s the only one who can smell it. Maybe he’s finally dying.

“And a phone charger,” Kurusu adds, like he’s enjoying this whole affair, enjoying his obvious discomfort. “So he doesn’t have to steal mine.”

That _is_ on the list, so Goro doesn’t tell him to shut up, but he thinks it very hard.

Kurusu decides to start by looking through his cupboards. He won’t find much of interest, but it will hopefully occupy him for the time being. 

Goro walks right past him and into his bedroom. Like the rest of his apartment, it hardly shows signs of life. The books on the small shelf are meticulously arranged, but never read. His bed is neatly made with perfectly tucked sheets and blankets, and the rug looks brand new. The only difference between his room and a magazine photo is his desk, which still has his school books spread out across it. Apparently, he’d been studying for a history exam before he took off into oblivion. It’s disturbingly mundane.

He goes over to his closet and pulls it open. Niijima has followed him inside, but she doesn’t move to gather any possessions. Instead, she just stares at his bed with guarded curiosity.

“What?”

She shrugs and puts her hands in her coat pocket. “It’s nothing. I just thought you’d have a futon instead of a raised bed.”

Goro turns back to his closet, trying to lose himself among the ironed uniforms. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Of course not. I’m only surprised,” Niijima says, and that’s the end of that discussion.

It doesn’t have to be. He could continue it by telling her about the orphanage, about the dirty floors that never came clean no matter how hard they were scrubbed, about the beds on squeaky wheels that were shoved into corners during the day so they — the orphans and the abandoned, the throwaway children — had enough space to sit and rot. He could tell her about the vermin that hid in the corners and nipped at their ankles — and fingers, if they were unlucky — and how the very _idea_ of sleeping on the floor makes him nauseous. How every night in Leblanc is half spent wondering if he’ll vomit.

But he doesn’t tell her any of that. He just pulls folded argyle sweaters out of the closet one by one.

Niijima comes up beside him, holding a coiled up phone charger and a book he doesn’t immediately recognize. For a moment, they just stare at what’s hanging in his closet. Then, she asks, “Why do you have so many identical peacoats?”

Goro takes one of them out and folds it over his arm. “In case one stained and needed to be dry cleaned. I had to keep up appearances after all. You should know all about how meaningful one’s reputation is.”

Niijima nods slowly. They fall silent again as he gathers his slacks. He wishes she would go loiter in the kitchen with Kurusu, instead of standing over his shoulder. He’s already on the verge of being sick.

She takes a few steps away from him, and he allows himself a breath of relief. But she’s not leaving him alone; merely closing the bedroom door. She leans against it in a manner he suspects is supposed to be casual, but it’s obvious what the truth is. She’s trapping them both inside.

“I want to ask you about something you said on November seventh,” Niijima says carefully. Her red eyes are sharp and piercing.

Goro meets her gaze evenly. “You expect me to remember something I said so long ago?”

She holds up her phone. It’s open to the Phantom Thieves group chat, but he can’t actually read any of the messages from this far away. “Let me quote it for you. ‘Clearly, our culprit is acting behind the scenes to accomplish some grand objective. He likely has accomplices. It is even possible that he is being controlled by someone.’”

His stomach lurches. He is absolutely going to be sick. How and why does she remember that? He remembers the messages clear as day now, sent in a moment of weakness. He closes his fist to try and stop it from shaking. He is going to throw up onto this tiny area rug that looks like it has never been walked on, and ruin everything.

“What did those messages mean?” Niijima asks. Her voice is polite and neutral, but he can feel the layer of acidity beneath them. It’s an accusation, isn’t it? He has to run. Has to get out of this conversation. He’s going to throw up.

She pockets her phone, but keeps her eyes trained on him. “‘It is even possible that he is being controlled by someone.’ Tell me, Akechi-kun. Was that a cry for help?”

There’s bile rising up his throat and into his mouth. He is _burning_ and there’s nothing he can do anymore. He wonders if maybe, just maybe, he could shove past her and grab the fire extinguisher from under the sink, and spray it all into his mouth before either of them could catch him. His heart is pounding so fast that if he doesn’t find a way to calm down _right now_ then he is going to die. And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing after all. Isn’t one of his options to kill himself? This is almost the same thing, right?

Niijima keeps talking like he isn’t this close to vomiting on the floor. “I don’t have the exact texts, but on the eleventh, you asserted multiple times that the person who tried to erase cognitive psience — that is, Shido — was the true culprit behind the mental shutdowns and psychological breakdowns.”

At some point during this, she started walking up to him. He’s going to throw up on her shoes at this rate. He shouldn’t have let any of this happen. He’s going to throw up. Goro desperately digs his fingers into his thigh as he fights back the nausea. 

“Akechi-kun?” Niijima prompts gently. She’s talking softly, like she hasn’t stabbed him in the lungs, like blood isn’t rushing into all the wrong parts of his chest, like he isn’t about to choke to death in a bedroom he still doesn’t entirely think belongs to him. She tries to put her hand on her arm, but he jerks it away like she’s made of hot coals.

She appropriately takes a step back. “All I want to know is if you were trying to ask for help.”

“Perhaps,” he murmurs treacherously. His voice is weak and dry. His stomach is pulsing and aching like someone shoved it inside a washing machine.

Niijima says, “That’s what I suspected. And for that, I’m here to offer you help should you ever want it from me. I’m sure you don’t want to believe it, but we _do_ want to help you. We saved your life for a reason.”

Goro whispers, “And I truly mean it when I say that you shouldn’t have done that. You should have left me there.”

Niijima closes her eyes. “I hope we can find a way to change your mind. Obviously most of the others will never ask to be your best friend, and Haru and Futaba have no plans to forgive you. But we’re all very glad that you’re alive.”

He backs himself against the wall. How can she say these things? She can’t possibly _believe_ such bullshit, right? The Phantom Thieves are glad he’s alive? What a _joke!_ His head is spinning. This is it, isn’t it? This is the part where she starts laughing in his face and then kills him on the spot? Because nobody would ever be _stupid_ enough to actually want him to live, right? He’s still nothing but a throwaway child.

The door swings open, and Kurusu walks in. “You two making progress?”

Goro opens his mouth to try and respond, but his breath immediately catches in his throat. Kurusu is holding a knife in his right hand.

Niijima says, “Possibly. We got a little off topic.” She doesn’t react to the knife at all, and it’s not like he’s trying to hide it, which means she was in on it the whole time.

They’re going to kill him.

The window in his room doesn’t open wide enough, which means he has to go through the door. But getting past both Niijima and Kurusu, especially with the carving knife dancing between them. He shouldn’t have been foolish enough to even dare think that Niijima meant what she was saying. Clearly, it was a trap meant to placate him. Unfortunately, he has no plans to let his guard down. His stomach is churning.

Kurusu hasn’t moved from the doorway. The way he holds the knife is so infuriatingly casual. Why did it take this long? Was he just waiting for some kind of perfect opportunity? Lord, this will make the news. He can already picture the headlines; Detective Prince Goro Akechi Found Dead in Own Home: Foul Play Suspected. The newspapers will use some pretty photo of him from his glory days that they’ll call a candid, but was definitely professionally shot, and he will still be dead dead _dead_ in his apartment. What is Kurusu _waiting_ for?!

“If you’re going to kill me, then hurry up and do it already!” Goro screams. The clothes fall to the ground as he slams himself against the wall, trying to back away from them both. Kurusu and Niijima exchange alarmed glances, no doubt worried that he figured out their idiotic plan to murder him. “Why are you just standing there?! I can’t take it! _Kill me,_ you rotten piece of shit!”

Niijima exclaims, “What are you talking about?! Why do you think we’re trying to kill you?!”

Goro shakily points at Kurusu, clamping his arm with his other hand in a vain attempt to stop it from shaking hideously. Kurusu holds up his hands, his glasses obscuring his expression. And Goro takes a good look at the…

He’s not holding a knife. It’s a Featherman figure he impulsively bought with his first ever paycheque from Shido, and promptly hid in the back of his linen cupboard.

“I thought you might want it,” Kurusu says, “But I can put it back if it’s making you upset.”

Goro stares at him, trying to process the last couple minutes, then slumps to the ground. His eyes are burning, and he desperately digs his gloved fingers into his thighs, trying not to cry. His gaze flickers from his now rumpled clothes, to the rug, to Niijima and Kurusu’s sock feet, before he’s shaking too much to even bother. Then, in a grand display of bravado, he throws up onto his knees through inescapable sobs.

Thankfully, Kurusu and Niijima don’t say anything about it. They help refold his clothes, pack them along with some socks and undergarments, and clean the vomit off his clothes.

(When they get back to Leblanc, Goro lifts the spare futon onto the couch, ignores how it doesn’t fit, and lies down. Then, childishly, he puts the Featherman figure on the table.)


	2. but i think i'd rather keep the bullet this time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I blink, my outline for this fic gets longer.
> 
> The suicide content warning is heaviest this chapter.

When the bell over the door rings, Goro doesn’t expect Takamaki to be the one walking in. It’s just past closing time, which is the only reason he’s lingering around downstairs.

“Hi, Boss! I hope I’m not coming around too late,” she says, flashing her million yen smile.

Boss taps ash off his cigarette with a shrug. “As long as you don’t cause trouble, then I don’t mind. Keep the kitchen tidy.”

Takamaki beams again, but it feels a little more genuine this time. Goro ducks his head and focuses on his curry. He hasn’t eaten much besides that since being rescued from the engine room, but who is he to complain? He certainly never asked to be fed.

(Though, since the incident at his apartment, fruit juice has been appearing in the fridge. “For electrolytes,” Kurusu had said. Goro still isn’t entirely sure whether or not this is Kurusu’s attempt at poisoning him.)

Boss steps out of the store, and Takamaki flops down in the seat next to him. Goro raises an eyebrow, then scoots away from her.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “You don’t look happy to see me. I came here because of you, y’know.”

He doesn’t have the energy to meet her eyes, and settles for staring at her huge, red earrings. They look heavy. “What do you want from me?”

Takamaki pouts. “Look, I get it.”

No she doesn’t.

“Everything’s shitty, you don’t want to be here, and there isn’t much you can do about your situation,” Takamaki continues, and he scowls because maybe she does get it. Just a little bit.

Goro pushes his plate away. “Perhaps that’s true. But I still don’t understand why you came here for me. I sincerely doubt you want to bitch about Kurusu.”

“Oh, no way. That’s what I have Ryuji for,” Takamaki answers with a laugh. “Can you cook?”

That’s a non-sequitur he wasn’t prepared for. He tries not to think about all the burned dishes from school cooking classes. “No.”

Somehow, that makes her even more excited. She leaps to her feet and grabs her bag, running into the kitchen and starts poking around in the cupboards. “Great! I’m gonna teach you how to make crepes! Haru taught me how a couple weeks ago, and I’m addicted.”

“And you’ve just decided this?” Goro asks, getting up from his seat and taking his plate of curry to the sink. 

Takamaki says, “Sure did! I think it’d be good for you. Cooking’s an important life skill. I mean, take out is great and all, but there’s really nothing like a home cooked meal!”

His gut instinct is to run, but this is somehow the least threatened by any of the Phantom Thieves he’s felt in a while. Instead, he leans on the sink and watches as Takamaki plugs in an electric griddle and then continues opening drawers at random. He sighs. Unfortunately for him, he’s learned the kitchen decently well in the time he’s been there. “What are you looking for?”

“Measuring cups!” Takamaki chirps, “And a whisk! I already found a bowl.”

Goro points at the one cupboard she has yet to ransack, then grabs the whisk off the drying rack. This is absolutely ridiculous behaviour to indulge, but he can’t seem to push her out of the picture. Not entirely. It’s so bizarre that he almost doesn’t hate it.

“So first, we need to whisk a cup of flour and two eggs!” Takamaki exclaims. She tugs over a small bag of flour and heaves it onto the counter. “You measure it, and I’ll grab the eggs.”

He frowns at her, but that doesn’t seem to perturb her. So, Goro takes the measuring cup and carefully dumps about a cup into the bowl. It doesn’t need to be exact, right? Takamaki appears a second later with two eggs, and cracks them on the side of the bowl. A fragment of shell falls in, and she plucks it out with her fingers.

“Wash your hands,” Goro says. He knows that rule.

Takamaki laughs. “That was the plan! Whisk those together while I do that.”

He does so. The mixture is quite thick, despite his best efforts. It doesn’t seem like the right consistency, but he doesn’t say anything. If this all goes south, it’s her fault.

Takamaki comes back with dry hands and a carton of milk. “Okay! Next we add half a cup of this, and half a cup of water! You measure the milk.”

Goro stops whisking and takes the carton from her. While she gets water from the sink, he measures out approximately half a cup, then dumps it into the bowl and continues whisking. It’s starting to thin out.

Takamaki returns again, and quirks a brow. “Hold on. Did you just throw all the milk in at once? You’re supposed to add it gradually!”

“You didn’t tell me to do that,” Goro points out.

She sighs. “I guess I didn’t. Okay, just keep whisking it while I slowly add water. It should be fine.” Goro isn’t sure if he believes her, but doesn’t protest as she adds the water, and then a pinch of salt.

“What next?” he asks, almost amused at this point. He has no idea how these are going to taste.

Takamaki gasps. “Oh no! I forgot to melt butter first! Um, I’ll handle that while you stay here. It shouldn’t take… too long?”

Goro chuckles and half whisks, half watches her rush around Leblanc looking for butter, a pot, and a pyrex bowl. She’s right that melting the butter on the stove doesn’t take a long time, but with how frantically she taps her foot and mutters to herself, it seems like an age. What a circus the two of them must be.

After a few minutes, she pours the butter into the rest of the mix. Goro continues to beat the mixture until it’s completely smooth, at which point Takamaki says that he can stop. He shakes his wrist out, then continues deferring to her.

“It’s time to get these bad boys cooking!” Takamaki exclaims. She helps spoon about a quarter of the mixture onto the hot griddle, then watches with glee as it starts to cook. Goro has to admit that it already smells nice. He doesn’t usually eat this late, but considering his companion, he’ll have no choice but to sample the wares once they’ve finished.

As the first crepe starts to crisp up, Takamaki asks, “Hey, do you actually like sweets, or is that just something you said on your food blog to make girls like you?”

Goro blinks. There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence. “You’ve read my food blog?”

“I think you’d be hard pressed to find someone in Tokyo who hasn’t,” she replies, tapping her lacquered nails on the counter. “Also, don’t dodge the question!”

He sighs. “I’m certainly nowhere near as fond of them as my public guise would have you believe. But on occasion, I do enjoy them.”

Takamaki pumps her fist. “Sick, because I’m totally dumping powdered sugar on these when we’re done.”

That sounds like her. He asks, “Why did you want to know?”

She flips the crepe over with a spatula. It’s such a clean motion that he’s envious. “I was just curious, I guess. I’ve always wondered how much of the Detective Prince crap was legit, actually. I always knew you were fake.”

Goro completely forgets about the crepes and desperately tries to stop his jaw from falling. “What? How could you have possibly— I put  _ everything _ into cultivating…”

Takamaki says, “I’m a model. I know all about getting fiends in the media to eat out of your hand. Makes it easy to see through other people. Of course, I never guessed how deep it all ran… I assumed you were just a jerk in real life, not the one making people go berserk.”

Well, isn’t that just a kick in the teeth. Goro pours the next crepe onto the griddle in an attempt to distract himself from the affair. Takamaki’s managed to be perfectly round, but his is misshapen and oblong. Quietly, he says, “Well, you were partially right. I  _ am _ a jerk.”

She laughs. “Really? You’ve been nice enough to me, and I just forced you to learn how to make crepes at ten at night!”

“I can be rude to you if you want,” Goro offers.

This only makes Takamaki laugh harder. “Try your hardest! But I’m pretty vicious too when it comes down to it!”

He shakes his head and tries to flip his crepe. It seems he’s attempted it too early, because half of it falls off the spatula, and the rest crumples and splatters miserably in the griddle. It looks pathetic as is, and Takamaki’s perfect crepe sitting on the serving plate only makes it worse.

“I did make declarations about having a sweet tooth so that people would like me, yes,” Goro admits after a few minutes of trying and failing to fix his crepe. “It seemed like one of the easiest ways to make myself appealing to the public. After all, if I wasn’t universally liked, I would fail before I ever started.”

Somehow, Takamaki smiles at that. As she leans over to pour more batter — perfectly round in shape — on the griddle, she says, “I knew it! Well, it worked. You were such a heartthrob. I knew  _ so _ many girls who were head over heels for your whole act. I actually still see forum messages from people lamenting about you.”

Goro murmurs, “At this point, I only want girls to  _ stop _ falling in love with me. It’s suffocating.”

And then his breath catches in his throat. At first, that statement seems like a petty thing for anyone to complain about, especially someone in his current position. But the true meaning is just under the surface, one that someone as sharp as Takamaki could easily pick up on. He tries to flip her crepe, and it still splatters pathetically.

“Same here! But like, the reverse,” she says, reaching over to help with the griddle. “I only care about cute girls, and what they think of me.”

For a moment, the two of them make eye contact. Neither of them say it outright — too much fear of rejection, too much worry about perception lurking in his stomach, in his lungs; meanwhile Takamaki radiates confidence in herself, in her truth — but it’s clear what they’re talking about. Then, she grins and pours the last of the batter on the griddle.

While she finishes with the crepes, Goro starts on washing all the dishes they’ve accumulated in the last forty-five minutes. Boss  _ did _ tell them not to make a mess, and he’s sure that he wouldn’t appreciate all the bowls and measuring cups left on the counter overnight.

As he hangs the whisk up to dry, Takamaki chirps, “All done! Let’s eat!”

They settle down in one of the booths. They have two crepes each, and she’s generous enough to eat the one he mangled and slightly singed herself. They’re filled with enough powdered sugar and whipped cream that he assumes she probably can’t tell, anyways.

The crepes are good, he has to admit. Of course, they’re only this way because of her expertise on the matter. He isn’t entirely sure if he hates that or not. It’s hard to tell at this point. Hard to tell who he is, what he’s feeling, or what’s  _ happening _ around him, even. Annoying.

Takamaki sucks in a big gulp of air as she finishes wolfing down her crepes. Goro’s only part way through his first one, and prepares to push his plate over to her when she opens her mouth to speak. But what comes out of her mouth is about the last thing he ever expected to hear.

“I forgive you, Akechi-kun.”

His crepe falls out of his hands. Goro tries to find words to respond to this incredulous statement, but none come. It doesn’t make any sense, and as the silence between them is drawn out even further, he starts to wonder if he imagined it. But why would he imagine such a foolish thing in the first place?

“I know it doesn’t mean very much coming from me,” Takamaki says quietly, folding her hands on the table. “I mean, nothing you did directly impacted me. But I still think it’s worth saying, and that you need to hear it. I forgive you for everything.”

His heart is beating much too fast for this conversation. Goro keeps his eyes on the table as he speaks. “That’s not your place. Perhaps you’re foolish enough to not hate me, but you are not allowed to absolve me of my crimes.”

“This is what I meant about you needing to hear this,” Takamaki says, “You’re always way too hard on yourself. It isn’t all deserved.”

Goro shakes his head. “It’s not all up to you. I’m sure your friends would agree that your words do not clear the murders of Wakaba Isshiki and Kunikazu Okumura from my hands.”

Takamaki frowns. “That’s not what I’m saying! I’m saying that  _ I _ forgive you. I’m not forcing anyone to have the same opinion as me, or say you’re innocent in anything. That’s all.”

It’s wrong. It all feels wrong. His skin is crawling. 

“I consider you my friend too,” Takamaki adds softly. Her eyes are soft and her expression is earnest, so this is either a very well designed trap, or she means it, and he can’t tell which is worse.

Goro shifts in his seat. “Takamaki, you cannot possibly expect me to be your friend. Not after what I’ve done.”

“We were just cooking together! And talking normally! You were having fun!” Takamaki protests. He hates how much conviction drips from her voice. How is she serious? “You know, you can call me Ann. Everyone does, and I think it’d—”

He pushes his plate over to her and gets up to do the dishes without a word. He throws himself into the hot, soapy water as he washes everything they dirtied, and even some of what they didn’t. By the time he’s done washing and drying the griddle, he finally deems it safe to return to the booth.

Goro’s crepes still sit there, untouched. Beside the plate, however, is a note. He picks it up, squinting at what must be Takamaki’s curly handwriting.

_ Akechi, _

_ I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. I didn’t want to push you into something you don’t want. But know that I meant everything I told you. _

_ Also, I wrote the crepe recipe on the back of this, in case you want to make it again yourself.  _

_ Take care, _

~~_ Ann _ ~~ _ Takamaki. _

He doesn’t realize that his eyes are burning until tears drip down onto the sheet of paper. He folds it up and tucks it into his pocket, then puts his leftover crepes in the fridge, and washes the other plate.

_ ‘I meant everything I told you’  _ floats around in the back of his head as he does so. Goro desperately ignores it.

* * *

At half past four in the morning, he lies awake on the couch and calls out to Loki and Robin Hood.

Neither respond.

* * *

Yusuke Kitagawa smells overwhelmingly like paint and bean sprouts. After two hours of reading in the attic, while Kitagawa sketches, that is the only conclusion Goro can come to. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but it isn’t exactly good either.

It’s neutral. Quite like his opinion of Kitagawa himself, actually. He supposes that it has something to do with the fact that they’ve never had a proper conversation before, and that this might be the first time they’ve been alone together.

God knows where Kurusu is. Goro’s barely seen him since the incident at his apartment, which is for the best. Doesn’t stop him from wondering, though.

Eventually, he grows tired of the book — the one Niijima took from his apartment; Nietzsche — and sits up, bookmarking it and getting a better look at Kitagawa. The man has not acknowledged him beyond a very brief greeting. Either he’s doing an excellent job ignoring him, or he is simply  _ very _ engrossed in his work.

With everything he knows about Kitagawa — which is in fact, very little — it could be either. Admittedly, everything he knows about the man has come from reading the police reports about Madarame, and the limited group interactions they’d had while acting as the Phantom Thieves. Goro ignores the sudden pang in his stomach. He doesn’t miss it.

“What are you drawing?” he asks, finding himself actually curious. Perhaps this is him finally going mad. It barely matters, though, because Kitagawa completely ignores him. Goro sighs and prepares to return to the book, when the man breaks his silence.

“Atonement.”

Well, that wasn’t an answer he expected. After a moment of deliberation, he gets off the couch and sits closer to Kitagawa. He can’t see exactly  _ what _ he’s sketching in his book, but he can make out deft, sincere lines. How curious. “I hadn’t realized you were an abstract artist.”

Kitagawa doesn’t look up as he speaks. “You have never seen my art before, I take it.”

Well, he isn’t wrong. Goro doesn’t have a response for that, and settles for sitting on the floor in silence. Maybe he should finally read all six thousand texts that have built up on his phone. He has no plans to reply to any of them, but he can at least make the notifications go away.

Then, Kitagawa asks, “Would you like to join me? Even if you are not a pupil of the arts, creation can be quite cathartic.”

“Is that so?” Goro regards him carefully. His walls are still up, on the off chance he has to worry about Kitagawa trying to kill him — or worse, trying to befriend him — but so far, it seems that he is not in any danger.

Kitagawa says, “That is what Futaba tells me. We often paint together, when she is available. It is a marvelous pastime. It may do you some good.”

That’s not a comforting sentence. Perhaps Goro does have something to worry about after all. Despite his misgivings, however, he says, “If that isn’t trouble for you. You’re clearly here on a mission, and I hardly need to be distracting you.”

“I am not easily distracted by the actions of others,” Kitagawa replies, lightly running his pencil across the page. “My paints are by the door. You are free to use them as you see fit. There should be brushes and a canvas in my bag.”

Goro looks at the worn down bookbag sitting near the staircase. “You trust me with your art supplies? That’s almost laughable.”

“I do not believe you could commit an offence with acrylic paint,” Kitagawa says. He still doesn’t look up from the sketchbook. In fact, only his hands and his eyes move at all. Aside from that, he’s as still as a statue. “That said, please do not steal them. Or attempt to eat them. They were expensive.”

Which of Kitagawa’s friends has tried to eat his paint?! Goro stares at him incredulously, rolling over options in his mind. Then, when he can’t settle on one — there are at least three probable answers — he goes over to the bag and pulls out the canvas. It’s small, which explains why Kitagawa is fine with letting him taint it. He selects three brushes at random, and jars of paint much the same, before going back to sit four feet away from Kitagawa.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Art classes were never something he put any time into; lack of money, time, and desire kept him solely in academic disciplines. It’s not like he can just ask, so he sighs and dips one of the paintbrushes into the jar of red paint, and hits it against the canvas. It reminds him of crepe batter, with how it splatters.

Goro continues going through the motions. He has no idea how this is going to turn out, but there is something invigorating about the fierce movements. Every so often, he switches brushes to keep it fresh. The canvas is a mess of red, blue, and yellow.

Eventually, he puts the canvas down and sighs. At this rate, he’s going to make the entire thing the colour of mud. 

Kitagawa notices, and finally lifts his head. “That was fast. Are you finished?”

“I suppose,” Goro says, rubbing his temples, hoping it will get rid of the ache behind his eyes. The painting — if he can even call it that — hurts to look at. “Feel free to dissect it.”

Kitagawa says, “That feels unnecessary. However, I would enjoy a chance to observe and analyze your painting.”

Is he making fun of him? Goro can’t tell, and pushes the canvas towards him before he can change his mind. It’s not like he’ll find anything of interest anyways.

“How fascinating…” Kitagawa murmurs, “Striking use of contrast, making each section of the painting stand out. The motion lines are strong, and they bring the eye to the centre… The bright edges suggest resentment, but the muted brown implies longing… How passionate.”

Goro quirks a brow at him. “You can’t be serious.”

Kitagawa smiles, for some goddamn reason. “Of course I am. In fact, I am often told that I don’t have a sense of humour. In any case, I have no reason to lie about what this piece says to me. Tell me, do you have any inspirations?”

This is ridiculous. Goro runs through the names of several artists in his head, looking for a suitable answer. He could say Da Vinci and get a weird look, or Pollock and let Kitagawa ramble on about how he can see how he drew from the source.

Or, he could cite a video he was sent while acting with the Phantom Thieves of a crow violently hitting a canvas with a paintbrush. He wonders if he can find it again.

Instead of doing any of that, he just shrugs and focuses very intently on the wood grain. Maybe now this painful conversation can finally end, and they can both go back to pretending that the other isn’t there. That’s what Goro needs right now. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket with a new text. He turns it off.

“Have you seen the painting hanging in Leblanc?” Kitagawa asks suddenly.

Goro doesn’t see the relevance, but nods. “Of course. Sayuri, yes? It made your mentor famous, but it came out that he hadn’t painted it at all. What about it?”

Kitagawa closes his eyes and smiles fondly. “That painting means everything to me.”

“Ah, so you’re the artist,” Goro says. It makes sense; the artwork is remarkable, and it adds up with all the information he knows about Kitagawa. 

Strangely, he lets out an amused chuckle. “You bestow too high of an honour on me. No, my late mother is the artist. But that painting has been my strongest inspiration ever since I was a child… and I hope to one day live up to it.”

Something in Goro’s chest aches. Whatever it is, he hates it. Keeping his eyes on the wood grain, he asks, “Do you miss her?” The question is far too personal for a first conversation, and will hopefully deter Kitagawa from interacting with him. 

However, Kitagawa doesn’t see this as an invasion. “I was only three years old when she passed. It is hard to miss someone you cannot remember… though I suppose I miss the idea I have of her.”

Goro wonders if any of the Phantom Thieves have living parents. It seems to be getting less and less likely by the minute. Though, he’s to blame in a few cases. How awful. He traces a figure eight on the attic floor to give him something to do.

They fall into silence. Kitagawa is sketching again, though there seems to be something stewing in his mind. Goro folds his arms tight around his chest and does his best not to think about the thicket in his lungs. The thorns are desperate for him to bleed.

“I was eight,” he says out of the blue. Kitagawa looks at him again, setting aside his pencils, and Goro closes his fists so tight that he begins to lose circulation in his hands. “I was eight when my mother killed herself.”

“You have my most sincere condolences,” Kitagawa says. The worst part is that Goro’s certain he means it. What the  _ hell. _

They’re quiet again for a few minutes. Kitagawa has no intent of pushing him, which is simultaneously relieving and annoying. Why is he even here?! Why on earth did he come to draw in Leblanc’s attic?! There’s nothing to see here! His fingers twitch incessantly. 

“When I came home from school, there was a note on the front door that said ‘CALL THE POLICE.’ I knew my mother’s handwriting well, but…” Goro whispers hoarsely. It’s blurry in his head. It almost feels like a bad dream that happened to somebody else. “I didn’t listen. I’d just had a lesson in school about not contacting the authorities without a reason. I thought she was testing me.”

Kitagawa moves closer to him, but does not try to touch him. It’s a small comfort, in a bizarre way.

Goro closes his eyes. “I found her upstairs. I called the police.”

Kitagawa doesn’t speak, but nods to show that he’s listening. He can hear the television downstairs. It’s playing some kind of variety show. The old couple must be at the shop right now.

“I haven’t had family since that day,” Goro says. He’s drawing figure eights on the floor with his finger again. “Those institutions… were never homes. I was just an object.”

Kitagawa says gently, “Forgive me if this is insensitive, but do you truly have no one else you can call family?”

Goro scowls. “Shido is not my family. You wouldn’t consider Madarame your family, would you?”

Kitagawa flinches. “That… is not what I was referring to.” There is something haunted in his eyes that is likely better left unacknowledged. 

“I have no idea where the rest of my mother’s family is,” Goro says bitterly, “Nor do I know where I’d start. I see no point.”

“Is ‘Akechi’ that common of a surname? I’d never heard it before meeting you,” Kitagawa says. The innocence in his voice comes just a hair short of sickening. What a life this man has lived.

Goro laughs at him. Or perhaps, not at him. But he does laugh, and it’s cold and filled to the brim with bitter tea. “Please. ‘Akechi’ wasn’t my mother’s surname. When I made my deal with Shido, part of my end was that I’d get a new family registry. It was the only way to move forwards.”

If Kitagawa takes offence, his face doesn’t show it. Rather, he looks tired, and sympathetic, which is annoying, and the wrong decision. Is he really just as foolish as Takamaki? The boy folds his hands in his lap. “May I ask what your mother’s surname was, then?”

“...Fujiwara,” Goro admits. It comes out with surprisingly little venom. It’s been a long time since he uttered the name that shamed him for fifteen years. 

Kitagawa says, “I can call you that instead, if you wish. I can’t imagine wanting to hold onto yet another aspect of Shido’s control.”

Goro scowls and moves away from him. “I refuse. That name stopped being mine when I left the institution. I won’t ever go back to who I was then.”

“Goro, then,” Kitagawa says. His voice is all too calm and pleasant. How repulsive.

“You have no right,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “I am not your friend, and you have no business trying to treat me as such. You know that I almost killed Madarame, don’t you?”

It was months ago that he infiltrated that Palace. It’s a little fuzzy in his mind now, but it’d be impossible to forget the gaudy setting.

Kitagawa says quietly, “I suspected something of the sort. If you are so insistent that I hold you at arm’s length, I will. I only thought to offer.”

Goro scoffs. “It’s because you don’t know anything about me. Having the brass tacks of my dirty history will do you no good.”

“That is true, but I can say the same to you,” Kitagawa replies. “You keep trying to use Madarame against me in this conversation, but you have no idea how I actually feel about him, and thus do it poorly.”

Goro scowls. He can’t actually respond to that, because Kitagawa is right. What an annoyance. “In any case… This entire country knows me as Goro Akechi, and I’m used to it.”

Kitagawa stretches out his legs. It makes him realize that his own are somewhat numb. “Being used to something does not make it good.”

“I’m aware.”

“And blood is not where one’s family ends,” Kitagawa continues, as though Goro hadn’t spoken. He smiles blissfully for a moment, before picking up his sketchbook again.

Goro says, “You saw my painting. I want to see what you’ve been working on since you squirrelled away here. Atonement, you said it was?”

Kitagawa nods solemnly. “It has come a long way since the beginning, and has a long way to go… but I am proud of the progress thus far.”

He holds up the sketchbook, and Goro’s breath catches in his throat. It’s a portrait of him.

* * *

Takamaki sends him nineteen texts a day, linking recipes and talking about all the strange people she’s seen in Shibuya lately.

Despite everything, Goro replies.

* * *

Somehow, he’s only heard the yellow phone in Leblanc ring twice since he arrived. Occasionally, he sees Kurusu make a call from it, but rarely does someone call the cafe. So when the tone plays, his eyes are automatically drawn to it.

Boss taps ash off his cigarette and heads over to answer it, while Goro averts his gaze and focuses on his dinner. More curry, but he made a tiny batch of udon to go with it, and managed to not entirely destroy it. It’s far more bitter than he’d like, though.

“Akira’s not here,” Boss says into the phone. “I think he’s bothering some fortune teller tonight, if you really need him, but your sister should have his number.”

He scowls into his meal. What a joke Kurusu is. He wants to spit.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Boss pauses for several moments, then sighs. Whoever’s calling already has the man sounding defeated, which isn’t a good sign. What’s worse though, is when he turns around with the receiver yanked away. “It’s for you.”

Goro raises an eyebrow, but gets up from his seat and settles down in one of the barstools. Why anyone is stupid enough to phone him is beyond him — he’s already gotten on Takamaki’s case about texting him since he’s technically missing — but he supposes that the old Leblanc phone not having any call history is a step in the right direction.

He takes the receiver from Boss, who gives him a look that says “good luck” and heads into the kitchen to tidy the place. Or just eavesdrop. Whatever.

“Hello?” he says quietly. Goro taps his fingers on the bar as he waits for the painful seconds to pass. The person on the other end of the line is taking their sweet time responding.

Finally, after what feels like forever, Sae Niijima’s voice rings in his ear. “It really is you.”

Goro sighs. “Unfortunately. I hope you know that I’m supposed to be dead.”

“Don’t say more than necessary,” Sae says sharply. It’s the same commanding tone she used when they were working on the SIU cases together. “I’m taking a massive risk doing this.”

“I’m aware. It’s a poor decision on your part,” he replies. Still, he can’t help but allow a small smile on his face. Something about her voice is relieving to hear, if only because it’s familiar.

Sae grumbles, “Don’t remind me. It took an hour of convincing myself that I had to hear you myself to believe what Makoto told me.”

Goro laughs. “I’m sure that was a tale of incredible heights. I suppose she laid out every detail of my tragic past for you.”

“I’ve always hated you,” Sae says, and it takes all his will not to drop the receiver. Instead, Goro clutches it tighter as he tries to process the sudden change in conversation. “I hated you when I thought you were nothing more than a kid with a head too big for his shoulders. Logically, I should hate you more, now that I actually have a vague idea of who I’ve been having coffee with for the past two years.”

“You should, yes,” Goro says. He means it — or at least, he thinks he does — but saying it makes his chest ache. He can’t even blame it on the broken ribs, because they’re healing at a decent pace. “I’d be disappointed in your integrity if you didn’t.”

She laughs, which is weird. He doesn’t think he’s heard Sae laugh  _ ever, _ and the sound is more than a little rusty. “Hm. She was right when she said that the person placing the hardest judgement on you was yourself.”

Goro scowls, knowing all too well that nobody can see him. “I don’t like what you’re implying with that statement.”

“Last I checked, you didn’t like anything besides empty headed praise, and the jazz club in Kichijoji,” Sae replies. He can practically picture her smirk, and he hates it.

...Maybe not hates. Strongly dislikes, perhaps. He’s done a lot of hating lately, and it’s getting exhausting. He shakes his head and says, “I didn’t like the empty headed praise either.” It’s not entirely a lie, but it isn’t the whole truth either. Something about being  _ wanted _ for once, even in the most shallow, selfish way, had felt like some kind of brief respite.

Sae says, “What I mean is that I don’t have the right to make a final decision about you just yet. This is the first time I’ve spoken to— to you. Not who was on television.”

“There’s a point to be made there,” Goro admits, “But I still strongly encourage you to hate me. It’s in your best interest.”

He’s still tapping his fingers. It gives him something to think about that isn’t how long Sae pauses after he says this. He’s on the landline still, and she’s probably using her cell, which means that she knows exactly where he is, and can keep moving about herself.

Maybe she’s coming to arrest him. Wouldn’t that be nice? 

“Is this your justice?” Sae asks at last. “Hating yourself because nobody is doing it for you?”

Goro struggles for an answer. His justice is when he wraps his hands around Shido’s throat and makes him pay for abandoning his mother and ruining his life. His justice is when he dramatically confesses to being the culprit behind the breakdowns and shutdowns on live television, before shooting himself in the head with a smile on his face. His justice is when he and Kurusu finally beat each other to death.

He wants to throw up. 

“Are you still there?” Sae prompts after a minute of silence. “If you’re talking, I can’t hear you.”

Goro rasps, “I’m here. As much as I wish I wasn’t.”

Sae says, “You shouldn’t talk like that. The more you say that you don’t want to be alive, the more you mean it.”

He knows that. He’s had to talk teenagers off rooftops and balconies before. It’s not like she’s imparting some grand wisdom on him, not like he’ll suddenly smile and become a beacon of sunshine and roses all because of some advice you can read anywhere. Every #MentalHealthAwareness post online lists that as something you can do to help yourself.

The problem is that he’s always believed that he would be dead before he turned nineteen. The problem is that his number is coming up, no matter what anyone does to stop it. The  _ problem _ is that he spent an hour this morning wondering if it was worth it to hang himself in the attic while there were still customers downstairs.

You will be alone always, and then you will die. These are words he’s lived by for far too long to let them go.

“I think it might be best if I cut this short,” Sae says, not unkindly. She sounds tired. “You’re obviously not in the mood to talk. We can chat again later, if you want. You know my number. Take care.”

When she hangs up, he hangs onto the receiver for several seconds longer than he should, before placing it back on the hook with shaking hands.

Dead by nineteen. It’s the only reason he remembers his birthday.

* * *

He dreams of his elementary school classroom. The lights are off, but the window is open, and moonlight shines down on the desks. All are pristine and polished, except for the desk closest to the window. He approaches it slowly, grimacing at the sight. Battered, overturned, and desecrated. There was only one cursed child in the class.

He dreams of a prison cell, and wardens with batons. They pace around, occasionally smacking the bars to remind him of his place. He’s chained to the back wall, so it hardly matters, but he flinches every single time.

He dreams of Shido’s office in autumn, with red and orange lights shining in through the cracks in the curtains. He’s only fifteen here, and is being handed his first official assignment; kill Wakaba Isshiki. Except instead of passing over the gun he’s meant to use, Shido points it at Goro’s forehead and fires.

He dreams of Shibuya, but all the streets are empty. He wanders through the city, looking for even the smallest fragments of life, and finds nothing. The trains are still running endlessly, but no announcements ring out, and not a single person gets on or off. He climbs on one himself, and the train instantly jets into the abyss.

He dreams of his mother, and wakes up in a cold sweat.

The attic creaks and sags, the couch legs wobble, his heart pounds in his ears relentlessly, Morgana and Kurusu snore in harmony, and Loki and Robin Hood are silent.

* * *

Yongen-Jaya is quiet in the mornings. Before the sun rises, Kurusu throws a shawl over Goro’s shoulders and guides him through the backstreets. There’s nobody up except the old couple running the second hand shop, and they aren’t paying attention when the two of them shuffle by.

(“You’re so lucky,” Kurusu had said, the first time they’d made this trip. “Sojiro makes me use the bathhouse.”

Goro had elbowed him in the chest and ended the conversation before it could begin.)

He used to think about making a run for it. About stealing Kurusu’s train pass the night before and bolting for the station before anyone could even think about stopping him. He doesn’t these days, which is annoying. Maybe he’s finally gone soft. Or he’s being worn down. He doesn’t like either option.

Goro told himself that he wouldn’t rot in Leblanc, but it’s starting to feel like he will. It’s enough to make him want to be sick all over the pavement. If he’s not going to run, then he has two options left; kill Kurusu or kill himself. And one of those options is starting to look a lot more appealing than the other.

Kurusu comes to a halt, pulling his phone out of his pocket and sends several texts in rapid succession. Goro stops too, and stares up at the Sakura house with some sense of renewed conviction. There’s fire burning in his throat. Or acid reflux. It might as well be the same thing.

After a minute of back and forth, Kurusu sticks his phone back in his pocket and holds the gate open for Goro. He climbs up the stairs mechanically, as is routine by this point, and waits for the door to swing open as the top step creaks.

Boss regards him, allowing him inside. He doesn’t look over his shoulder, because he knows by now that Kurusu won’t follow him in. As Goro takes his shoes off, he catches a glimpse of Sakura, which is new. She’s hovering behind the couch like a ghost, and ducks when she sees him looking.

“Hey, before you head out…” Boss calls out the door, waving down Kurusu. “Any chance you’re going to Akihabara today?”

Kurusu responds, “Yeah. Meeting up with someone in a bit, actually.”

Boss beckons him up to the door, and Goro busies himself with folding up the shawl and tucking it inside the cloth bag with his toiletries. He doesn’t belong here, and it’s obvious from all the conversation around him, and the girl crouched down because she can’t bear to make eye contact with him.

It’s fine. It’s  _ fine. _ None of them will have to bother with him once this is all over.

“Can you pick this up for me? I’ll pay you back,” Boss says, passing Kurusu a slip of paper. The boy gives him a smile that is nothing at all like the smug grins Goro’s been receiving since he regained consciousness in a booth at Leblanc. 

Instead of listening to the rest of this exchange, Goro grabs the bag and heads up the stairs to the bathroom. As he does, Boss says something to Sakura about contacting him right away if she needs something. Goro shakes his head and shuts them out. None of that matters anymore. What matters is getting to the washroom and locking himself inside.

In the washroom, he drops the bag and latches the door so it’s just him and the mirror. This would go better if he’d prepared ahead of time, but he can improvise. Goro throws open the cabinet and roots through it for something suitable.

Finding razors would be too easy — of  _ course _ they’d go out of their way to hide something so obvious — but he doesn’t need those. Unfortunately, the cleaning supplies he’d go for aren’t in here either. Because his options just have to be even more limited. He supposes that if he comes down to it, he can drown himself, but he’d rather find something simpler.

Or is he making excuses for himself?

Goro shakes his head and takes another look at the cabinet. There’s a bottle of disinfectant at the back, and it’s half empty. That’s enough. It’s  _ enough. _ He just has to get it open and down the contents, and then it'll be done. All the Sakuras will have to do is dispose of his body. And that shouldn’t be too hard, right? 

His stomach wrenches. Goro grits his teeth and focuses. This is what he planned. This was his  _ first option.  _ He needs to just bite the bullet and die the way he was meant to. Die the same way as his mother, because he ended up just like her in the end. Unable to fight back in a world with no redeeming qualities. After all this time, he’s going to fail her.

His hands are shaking. He can’t unscrew the cap.

Goro screams and throws the bottle back, burying his face in his gloved hands as his eyes burn and his stomach twists. What is  _ wrong _ with him? Why can’t he do even  _ one _ thing right?! Why isn’t he  _ dead already?! _

There’s a knock at the door. Goro’s screech is almost unearthly.

_ “Leave me alone!” _

He grips his head and presses his fingers into his skin. Why he can’t just plunge them through into his skull and tear through his brain like putty is beyond him. He should be able to.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says the voice on the other side of the door. The dulcet tones are not Boss’. He doesn’t know what the hell Futaba Sakura wants with him, and he’s not going to find out. Maybe if he doesn’t acknowledge her, she’ll go away.

“Say something, Akechi,” Sakura prompts. Her voice is shaking miserably. Goro grits his teeth and presses his hands against his head further, hoping that if she doesn’t leave, he can at least drown her out.

Why is she even here? Doesn’t she despise him? He killed her mother, for fuck’s sake, and no bottomless saviour complex should allow him mercy. He considers reminding her of this fact, but stays quiet. No point in being cruel. Not when he can’t even find it in himself to end his worthless life.

Sakura jiggles the doorknob for several moments, before letting out an agitated sigh. “Akechi,  _ please.  _ Please just tell me that you’re… that you’re alive.”

Well, he’s supposed to be dead. He shunts aside the wall of nausea — or perhaps it’s guilt — building up from hearing her beg so pathetically. It’s  _ fine. _ Once she gets it in her head that talking to him will do nothing, he can get all this over with.

(His hands are still shaking.)

The door thumps. Is she trying to bust it down? There’s no way she could manage that; it’s a bulky door and she’s fragile at best. The thumping continues, and he stares at the floor. He’s beyond saving, and she must know that, deep down. She’ll go away eventually. She has to. And then this can all be over.

(The excuses get harder to believe by the minute, but he keeps piling them on.)

Another slam, but weaker this time, and is accompanied by her murmuring, “No no no no no no…” Goro clenches his fists and ignores how tense his stomach is. It’s horrible, letting her agonize like this. But isn’t it worse if he responds? After everything?

He doesn’t remember standing, or unlatching the door. He grips the handle with his left hand, then pulls it open and steps back before he can regret it. Sakura, who had apparently been slumped against the door, falls onto the floor inside. She instantly leaps to her feet and brandishes a long object at him.

Goro stares at her blankly. She’s wrapped in blankets in all colours and textures; draped over her shoulders like a tapestry. In her right hand, she holds a fucked up pool noodle, red and worn down from years of use. She almost looks like a character out of some role playing game. But strangest of all is that she does not look scared of him.

(It does not change what he did.)

Wordlessly, he points at the pool noodle. She lightly bonks him on the head with it. “Self defence.”

He feels his face go through a whole barrage of emotions, before he sighs and just takes a seat on the floor again, crossing his legs and folding his arms tight around his chest. He was supposed to be clean and on his way back to Leblanc. He was supposed to be dead.

Sakura slowly places the pool noodle on the floor, as though measuring a safe distance away from him, then sits down about five feet across from him. He tries not to look at her. None of this should be happening. And now he can’t even hurt himself without further traumatizing a fifteen year old girl.

“Do you play any MMOs?” Sakura asks suddenly. She’s fiddling with the fringes on one of the blankets, and not making eye contact. 

It’s such a strange question that it startles him out of the sluggish reverie he’d been in before. “...What?” he asks, only realizing once the word is out of his mouth that he’s broken his vow of silence.

Sakura shrugs and rocks back and forth on the floor. “I dunno. I don’t wanna talk about serious stuff, and I don’t think you do either. But I don’t wanna just sit here. This is neutral ground.”

Well, none of those points are wrong. Though Goro is really not in the mood to talk, he supposes that he can at least give her the time of day. “No. I don’t play any MMOs. I’ve never had time for that.” Also, he doesn’t have any interest in them.

Sakura says, “I play one you might like. I can show it to you, if you want.”

“Perhaps,” Goro responds, tracing circles on the floor with his fingers. “I’m not sure if I’m up to that today, however.”

“Oh, yeah!” Sakura smiles, before it immediately falls off her face. “No worries. I mean, now’s pretty early for me to be on the servers. The regulars might wonder what’s going on.”

Goro closes his eyes. “You don’t need to make excuses for my sake. I know I don’t deserve that.”

Sakura frowns. “I’m not making excuses! And you’ve gotta stop saying scary things like that! It’s not good for you.”

“You shouldn’t care about what’s good for me,” Goro replies, still thinking about the bottle of disinfectant. Maybe he can scare her off with her own pool noodle and down it. “I don’t even know why you’re here now.”

Sakura lightly smacks his knee with the pool noodle. “Because I don’t want you hurting yourself. Duh. I can’t just leave you alone when you’re at risk.”

“I killed your mother!” Goro shouts. Sakura flinches, but holds her ground as best she can. He ignores the tears budding in her eyes, and his chest heaves. “I  _ killed _ your  _ mother.” _

“Do you think I don’t know that?!” Sakura yells back, clenching her fists. She slams one of them on the floor, shaking. “Do you think I haven’t asked myself every single day why I agreed to save your life?! Do you think I don’t guilt myself constantly over protecting my mother’s murderer?!”

Goro stares at her, mouth falling open. He fumbles for some kind of response, but nothing comes to mind. Finally, as she heaves a sob, he murmurs, “Then why are you wasting your time on me?”

Sakura stares up at him with wide, gaping eyes. Ever the bleeding heart. “Because… Because you’re more than a pile of lies and hatred. Because you were my age when you headed down this path. And no matter  _ what _ I feel about you… I can’t just ignore someone who’s obviously suffering.”

Suffering? Goro absently brings a hand to his cheek, absently remembering the bottle of disinfectant. His throat feels tight, and his shoulders heavy.

Sakura pulls her knees to her chest. “Plus, whatever you might say about it, Shido used you. And I blame him more than I blame you. I dunno if that’s right, or wrong, or what. I don’t think you killed my mom because you  _ wanted _ to, but I guess you can correct me.”

“...I was ordered to. A test of worth,” Goro murmurs. The lights above the sink flicker in time with Sakura’s trembles. He supposes that he’s still shaking too, but it’s erratic. Unpredictable. Like any second, he could lash out. “But it wasn’t just ‘being used.’ I went to him, knowing what kind of person he was, and offered to kill for him. I am not a good person.”

_ ‘You were my age’  _ echoes through his head, and his heart seizes. Sakura is only fifteen. At fifteen, he was already developing a revenge plan to defame and kill his mother’s murderer. At fifteen, she is offering compassion to her own. It makes him sick.

She doesn’t say anything, but she stares at him with her brown eyes, and something about them makes him nervous. It’s not the fact that she’s looking at him with both pity and scorn, but her eyes themselves. Eyes she does not get from her mother. Something about them is so familiar that it makes his head spin, and his gut tense with nausea.

Distantly, he recalls a moment from that awful, endless November, when he was a Phantom Thief and wasn’t thinking about killing himself twelve hours a day. Someone in the group chat had asked about blood types. It might have been Niijima. He remembers most of them knowing off hand. He remembers Sakamoto having to ask his mother. He remembers Kurusu answering “red.”

He remembers that both him and Sakura have AB negative blood, the rarest type in the country.

It all falls into place a little too cleanly. He doesn’t know why it never occurred to him earlier, considering in the moment, he’d thought that was an odd coincidence, and some of the other Thieves had commented on it. He supposes he needed to see her this closely to realize.

(He won’t tell her. This is a burden he’ll shoulder alone.)

There’s a loud noise from downstairs as the front door closes. Boss’ voice rings out. “Futaba! Come help me with the groceries!”

“Can you come here first?” Sakura shouts back, cupping her hands around her mouth.

Goro whispers, “What are you doing?”

She silences him with another look, and not even intentionally. But he still flinches back from the gleam in her eyes, from something strict and sharp, something made from iron and coal, something inherited. 

Footsteps force him to focus on the world in front of him. Boss stands in the doorway, looking down at the two of them with a confused look on his face. “What’re the two of you doing? Kid, have you been sitting in here the whole time?”

Goro stares at the floor guiltily. Sakura pipes up in his steed. “We shouldn’t be leaving him alone. He’s… he’s in danger.”

Boss’ eyes land on the bottle of disinfectant. “Ah. That’s my fault for not paying better attention.”

“Stupid Sojiro,” Sakura says, lightly hitting his shins with the pool noodle. “It’s a good thing you have me.”

Boss says, “Trust me, I’d be nowhere without you. Let’s get Akechi here all fixed up.”

Goro’s eyes water, and the monster in his chest chews on his heart until he can’t hold the tears in.

* * *

Clean and now draped in the shawl again, Goro prepares to return to Leblanc. He watches Boss don his hat and coat by the door, when Sakura suddenly rushes up, waving her arms.

“Wait! I want to take him back.”

Boss folds his arms, but the look in his eyes is calm. “Are you sure about that?”

Sakura nods vehemently. “I can do it. I have to do it. It’s my big quest for the day.”

Boss looks at her for a few moments, then turns to look at Goro. “What about you?”

“I don’t take issue with it,” Goro says as respectfully as he can. He thinks he means it. He’s still putting all those pieces back together.

Boss sighs and hangs up his hat again. “Fine, then. But call me right away if you need anything.”

“You got it!” Sakura says, giving him a mock salute. She throws the door open, then suddenly jumps back to pull on a pair of scuffed sneakers. With that taken care of, she jumps outside and gestures for Goro to follow her. 

What a strange girl.

He exits the house and shuffles down the stairs. Sakura stays a few steps ahead of him the whole time, but keeps turning back to look at him, bouncing on her heels the whole way. Goro watches her, confused. It isn’t a long walk to the cafe, but it feels so much farther today. 

When they reach Leblanc, Sakura holds the door for him. He doesn’t like it, but he dips his head to her and enters, pulling the shawl off his shoulders. 

“Akira’s upstairs,” she says, closing the door behind her and flopping down at one of the booths. “So if you want to lie down, or whatever, he’s around.”

Goro takes a seat across from her. “Mm. I see.”

Sakura crouches in the booth, like he’s seen her do in various chairs. The pair of them sit quietly for a few minutes. Then, she looks up at him and says, “I don’t forgive you, by the way.”

“You shouldn’t,” Goro answers. It’s almost automatic at this point.

Sakura sticks out her tongue. “You didn’t let me finish. I don’t forgive you, but I don’t think I hate you. There’s a difference. Okay? I know I’m not always the most articulate, but it’s how I feel.”

Goro opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he folds his hands on the table and doesn’t meet her eyes. In fact, he isn’t sure if he  _ can. _

“And… this is a long shot, but maybe we could be friends someday,” Sakura adds, and he splutters for several moments while she waves her hands. “Not right away, or anything. I’m not ready for that, and you sure aren’t either. But it could be something we work towards. Together.”

Goro’s hands shake as he tries and fails to look at her face. “Friends.” The idea is still completely foreign to him. He’s never had friends. Nobody has ever wanted him. Not genuinely. 

She shrugs. “Think about it and get back to me.”

He wants to tell her. He wants to tell her where he last saw eyes like hers, and what that means for both of them. He wants to tell her that he knows that the roots of their misfortune run deeper than she has ever imagined. He wants to tell her that he never meant for any of this, even though it would be a lie. He wants to ask her how much of this agony runs in the family, and how much is his own fault.

He doesn’t.


	3. sorry about the blood in your mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for taking so long, so I'm splitting the planned third chapter into two shorter parts. Please enjoy!

“Morgana is a cat.”

“I am  _ not _ a cat!”

“He says he’s not a cat.”

Goro rolls his eyes and continues reading the poetry book he found in the attic. Kurusu is fiddling with the ends of his hair, offering a stupid smile to Boss, while Morgana sits on the table next to him, eyeing the Featherman figure.

Boss takes a deep breath. “I don’t trust your cat-who-says-he’s-not-a-cat to look after Akechi by himself.”

“I trust Morgana with my life,” Kurusu says, and it’s ridiculous that he means it. Morgana preens happily from the praise, which is only a little annoying.

Boss says, “That doesn’t change how I feel about this.”

Morgana paws at the figurine, and Goro reaches up to smack him away. The cat responds by leaping onto his shoulder and knocking him over. He’s  _ heavy. _

“What are you eating?” Goro asks, trying to shove Morgana off him. “It’s not healthy for cats to weigh this much.”

Morgana snaps, “I can forgive Boss, but you  _ know _ that I just look like a cat!”

“I don’t see the difference,” Goro mutters, finally pushing him onto the sofa. Morgana settles for hissing at him.

Boss quirks a brow. “What about you? Do you think the cat makes decent company?” He’s waiting for a ‘no sir, he’s just a cat.’

Goro sighs. “Unfortunately.” Morgana makes another indignant noise.

Boss looks between him, Kurusu, and the cat, then pushes up his glasses and turns away. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Come help with dishes when we close up.”

He’s been helping with the dishes almost every night. Something about needing to keep his mind of his incredibly dubious mental health. Something about character. In any case, Goro offers him a vague nod, then returns to the book. Boss heads downstairs, and Kurusu slips out of the attic after him like some kind of ghost. 

For a few, blissful minutes, the only noise in the attic comes from the turning pages of the book, and the faint buzz of the space heater in the corner.

Then, Morgana pokes him in the leg.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and stares down at the cat. “What. I’m behaving myself, aren’t I?”

“I noticed what you did the other night,” Morgana says, rubbing his paw on his ears. For someone who insists he isn’t a feline, he most certainly acts like one. “You said your name into the Metaverse Nav.”

Goro scowls. He’d been sure that the cat hadn’t been paying him any mind. “I did. Did I violate the terms and conditions of my staying here by doing so?”

Morgana huffs. “I was  _ going _ to help you out, but if you’re going to be difficult about it, then I won’t.”

“Why are all of you so insistent on helping me?” Goro replies. He tucks his book away, knowing in this moment that he won’t be reading anything else tonight. “I don’t understand it.”

Morgana replies, “Well, now that we’ve saved your life, we’re kind of stuck with you, just as much as you’re stuck with us. You’re just going to have to get used to that.”

His phone buzzes. Goro casts a glance at it to see that Takamaki has sent him a photo of a crow with frosting on its face. Caption: “u”. He types back: “Haha.” It’s a really good image. He saves it to his album.

“See?” Morgana says, having apparently decided that he has the right to spy on Goro’s texts. “I can’t believe Lady Ann likes you so much. She never texts me.”

Goro says, “Because you don’t have hands. Or a phone.” One of the few tragedies of being a cat.

Morgana pouts. “I’ll definitely have hands when I get my real form back. Just you wait.”

At least the cat has convinced himself that he’s human, because Goro is pretty sure that none of the other thieves believe this, him included.

...He’s not one of the Phantom Thieves. He doesn’t belong in their group. Of course, he’s never belonged anywhere. He rolls the thought over in his head again, trying to internalize it. This is the truth. His truth. His truth has always been a lone path. An unkindness. Something bitter and unremembered.

“So?” Morgana asks, flicking his tail like he’s enjoying himself a little too much. “What gives? Why are you sneaking around with the MetaNav?”

_ Why should I tell you _ and  _ You have no right bothering me about this _ and  _ Why are you pretending to care about me _ and  _ I’m not going to tell you anything _ all bubble around in his head like chunks in a pot of guilt ridden and angry soup. Instead of saying any of that, though, Goro rubs his face and murmurs, “Why else? I thought I had a Palace. I don’t.”

Morgana cocks his head. “Well, yeah. You’re a Persona user. Since you’ve accepted your Shadow, you can’t form a distortion like that. Don’t you know that?”

“Of course I know that,” Goro says, like he didn’t learn it only a few months ago. “It’s common knowledge. I only thought to test it.”

Morgana says, “So you’re afraid of developing a Palace.”

“I never said that,” he snaps. “That has nothing to do with it.”

Morgana’s expression is filled with both curiosity and frustration. “I don’t think I follow your logic.”

Is this it? Is he really going to bare his soul to a talking cat that bunks up with the person he hates the most every night? Goro closes his fists tightly before responding. “My Personas are gone. I haven’t been able to reach them since… since you all chose to rescue me.”

Morgana flicks his ear. “Huh. I haven’t heard of that before. I suppose I could see why you thought a Palace might have formed. But since you don’t have one…”

“I don’t know what to think either,” Goro mutters, “All I know is that neither will speak with me now. I assume that were I to go to the Metaverse, I would not be able to summon them.”

Morgana says, “I’d say you should ask Akira about—”

“I’m not going to ask him anything.”

“—it since you have the same— Yeah, I don’t know why I thought that would work,” Morgana says, taking a moment to lick his paws again. Goro resists the urge to gag at the sight. The cat says, “You’re really all or nothing, so I doubt you just have a Shadow in Mementos to beat up.”

That feels too easy.

Morgana jumps onto the table again. “I think you’ll need to start by being honest with yourself for a change.”

Goro quirks an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? I’m the only person who’s honest about me. It’s the rest of you who think I can be forgiven and befriended.”

“Do you do this on purpose?” Morgana asks, lashing his tail dangerously close to the Featherman figure. “Do you enjoy acting like a contrarian? It’s actually very annoying.”

“So are you,” Goro says, and picks up his book again. He feels like this conversation  _ really _ isn’t going anywhere in the next little bit.

Morgana bats at the fringes coming off the couch. “I can’t say this for sure, but I think your Personas might be unresponsive because you’re at war with yourself. You’re only supposed to be able to summon them if you truly understand who you are.”

Goro frowns. “I’m not conflicted, though. I’ve always known that I’m rotten to the core. This is just the first time anyone else has known how deep it runs.”

Morgana fixes him with an expression that should be impossible for a cat to make. “How do you say things like that with a straight face? It scares me.”

“I’ve been killing people since I was fifteen years old,” Goro responds, fixing his gaze on the wood grain. He’s tired. If he hadn’t already been recruited to help with the dishes, he’d just close his eyes and try to fall asleep before Kurusu gets back from  _ god-knows-where _ in Tokyo. “I’d kill someone, then appear on television two hours later. It’s like fruit.”

Morgana blinks. “Fruit?! What about that is like fruit?! Are you feeling okay?!”

“Looks pretty. Rotting on the inside,” Goro explains, as though the absurdity of what he said didn’t hit him after the cat reacted. “That’s what it was. But now I’ve rotted all the way to the surface. That’s all this is.”

Morgana opens his mouth, likely ready to fire back some kind of smart comment, then closes it again. It takes him a few moments to collect his thoughts, apparently. “Fifteen, huh? How does that… happen?”

Goro sighs. “I found the Metaverse app on my phone and stumbled into Mementos. I was so scared that I killed the first Shadow I ran into without thinking. And then every one after. I didn’t know it was causing shutdowns in the real world until I saw the news the next day.”

Morgana nods. “You already had your Personas? Or one of them, anyways?”

“I grew up with Robin Hood. The hero I wanted to be,” Goro mutters. He’s spilling his guts to the stupid talking cat who’s going to bitch about him behind his back later. What is  _ wrong _ with him? “And Loki…”

“And Loki?” Morgana prompts.

There’s blood in his mouth, and Goro has to take a few seconds to think about whose it is. His own, right? Or maybe the taste of salt and iron comes from a memory. He isn’t sure until it drips from his lips and lands squarely on his argyle sweater. Loki came after Robin Hood, but while one was born from lies and desperate attempts at heroism and something about being a comfort for a ruined child, Loki was born from hate. Loki was born from blood.

“They do terrible things to throwaway children in institutions,” is all he says in the end. The cat is merciful enough not to make him elaborate. “You know the rest. I went to Shido and offered myself as a hitman. I knew he was my father, and had already been dreaming of vengeance. I just finally had a way to act on it.”

Morgana lets out a small noise of what is probably pity. “Would you have killed him if we hadn’t gotten in your way?”

He doesn’t know. He learned to love the praise. It became the only thing pushing him to smile on television instead of claw at his face and scream. He was  _ desperate _ for his father to be proud of him, even if he wasn’t a real father. He needed someone to care. Would he have killed Shido? Assuming that the man  _ hadn’t _ been planning to get rid of him following the election, could he have managed that? He’s known the keywords to Shido’s palace since he was sixteen, and never did anything about it. What did he even have to live for after his revenge? He doesn’t know.

“Of course,” Goro says, because he’s not going to tell the bullshit magic talking cat have anything else over him. “My plan was going perfectly, and now I have to sit here and  _ pray _ he has one of your ‘changes of heart’. All because I had to hear you talking about pancakes.”

He waits for the cat to gloat. Instead, Morgana rumbles like a motor boat and says, “Oh, his heart will change. And then either we’ll figure out what to do with you, or you will.”

“I’m not comforted,” Goro says.

Morgana makes an unholy snorting noise. It’s even less comforting than his prior attempts at assurance. Goro shakes his head and checks the time on his phone. The cafe is likely closed now, so it’s time to help Boss with the dishes.

...He really is resigned to living here. At least, until they decide to get rid of him.

(Soon. Soon enough. He has never been wanted.)

Morgana trots down the stairs after him. Goro rolls up his sleeves and pulls on a battered apron that’s seen years of coffee stains and tough love, then goes to face the sudsy pile of dishes. The cat leaps onto a barstool, because he doesn’t have hands and therefore doesn’t have to help.

...He’s tired.

“There you are,” Boss says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Was starting to wonder if I was going to have to drag you down here.”

Goro begins scrubbing one of the mugs. “I wouldn’t force you to waste that kind of effort on me. You’re already doing too much.”

Morgana yowls,  _ “When _ are we getting him a therapist?!”

Goro splutters and tenses, while Boss chuckles. “There’s some tuna juice in a bowl on the floor. I saved it just for you.”

“That’s not— did you say tuna?” Morgana says, leaping off the bar stool and rushing to find the bowl. A horrible slurping sound fills the air in seconds.

Goro murmurs, “I think that’s the first time he  _ wasn’t _ begging for food.”

Boss taps ash off his cigarette. “That so? I didn’t realize that you could understand the cat too.”

“You’re the only one who can’t, as far as I know,” Goro replies, rinsing suds off a plate. His stomach twists and he holds his breath, praying he won’t vomit onto the dishes.

“Huh,” Boss says, “I’d love to know what that rascal’s thinking. Any chance you can teach me?” He’s joking. There’s too much levity in his voice.

Goro sets down a mug with shaking hands, hoping it doesn’t shatter when he lets go. “Easily. But I think it would make your children very upset with me.”

Boss chuckles. “I wouldn’t tell.”

Ah, so he doesn’t think any of this is serious. For a moment, Goro ponders the thought of pulling Boss into the Metaverse and letting him freak out for about ten minutes. Then, they could all talk to Morgana together, like some kind of fucked up bonding activity. 

As though reading his mind, Morgana shoots Goro a look that screams  _ don’t you dare. _

“No, but the cat would,” Goro replies breezily, reaching into the sink and wincing as the hot water threatens to burn his forearms. “And as I said… your children would be very upset with me.”

Boss opens his mouth, but closes it just as quickly. Goro wonders what he was going to say at that moment, knowing that it’s futile, knowing that he has never deserved an explanation for anything. He still doesn’t understand why Boss is agreeing to protect him.

Goro pulls a knife out of the sink. Instead of going to scrub the grime off it, he stares at it for an uncomfortably long period of time. It’s sharp.

“Ah, hey, put that back. I’ll wash the knives,” Boss says suddenly, stepping close to him. When Goro doesn’t put the knife back in the sink, Boss takes it out of his hand and sets it aside. He stares down at him for a moment, then squints. “Is that blood on your sweater?”

Goro’s tongue catches on the small split in his lip. “It… wasn’t intentional.” This time.

Boss licks his thumb and then rubs it on the stain, trying to get it out. When it doesn’t work — and makes Goro the slightest bit uncomfortable, because this is somehow the most casual affection he’s received since his mother died — he says, “Give that to me before you turn in, and I’ll get it washed.”

“Thank you,” Goro whispers, because something about him is breaking down. Whatever enzymes are in the water here have finally gotten to him. 

Boss smiles at him, and for one, fleeting second, Goro allows himself to feel wanted, before he curls up that sensation into a ball and locks it away in his rib cage.

* * *

He lies awake in a daze, and Kurusu thrashes in his sleep. Goro doesn’t react to it; it’s a common enough occurrence. Not even  _ he _ can keep all his demons at bay, apparently.

He doesn’t care about Kurusu. He is not going to comfort him. He can lie there and thrash by himself. Whatever.

Kurusu suddenly jolts awake and rolls off the bed, and Goro dutifully closes his eyes and makes his breathing steady so it’s not obvious he’s paying attention.

“Akira!” Morgana whispers. There’s the sound of a twenty pound weight hitting the floor, so he must have jumped off the bed. “Hey, talk to me.”

Kurusu’s breathing is ragged and uneven. “Bad dream. Really… really bad.”

Morgana asks gently, “Interrogation room?”

“Interrogation room,” Kurusu confirms. So this has happened before. So this is frequent enough that the cat has a logbook of his nightmares.

He can taste blood in his mouth again. He tries to think about that, and not how Kurusu sounds like he’s crying on the floor at three in the morning.

“Please tell me he’s asleep,” Kurusu murmurs. It’s muffled, like he’s talking into some fabric. Like he’s pulled his knees to his chest and is struggling to stay upright.

Morgana replies, “Don’t worry. He’s been out for hours. It’s just the two of us right now.”

What a joke. Goro doesn’t react, though. No point in giving himself away.

“Thank god,” Kurusu says, coughing weakly. He’s quiet for a few moments as Morgana rumbles helpfully. “I wouldn’t be able to look him in the eyes otherwise.”

Goro’s fingers clench the blanket draped over him.

Morgana asks, “Was he in your dream this time?”

Kurusu laughs, and it sounds so bitter that it’s almost as if coffee is dripping from his lips. “He always is. Always standing there, smiling at me.”

He doesn’t know why hearing this bothers him.

“He handed me the gun this time, and said I could choose,” Kurusu continues softly, scratching the floorboards with his long nails. His breathing is shallow. “I shot us both.”

Goro focuses on how the futon feels, and not on whatever the hell is happening four feet away. He can see the image in his head cleanly, and he hates every part of it.

Morgana’s question isn’t laced with malice, but it makes his chest hurt nonetheless. “Do you regret saving him?”

Kurusu laughs again. For some reason, though, what he says is enough to make treacherous tears well in Goro’s eyes. “The only thing I regret is that I didn’t meet him earlier.”

He tries to imagine a world where Kurusu jauntily strolled into his life at age fifteen, the same stupid smile on his lips. There had been some kind of understanding between them in those cruelly short months that lead up to the interrogation room. Maybe Goro would have never gotten involved with Shido. Maybe he could’ve channelled all this agony into something healthy. Maybe he wouldn’t be lying awake in this dusty attic, staring dead eyed at the ceiling.

Or maybe he’d still be in the attic, but for a sleepover. And he’d be awake, but because he and Kurusu were chatting away into the night, telling stories and cracking jokes. Maybe he’d have friends.

It feels like there’s glass crunching in his throat.

“I just want him to think it was worth it. That  _ he _ was worth it. Because he  _ is,  _ but he hates me so much that there’s no point in trying to explain that,” Kurusu says, his sides heaving. He makes an ugly sniffling noise. “And the only thing worse is that he hates himself more.”

“Akechi doesn’t hate you,” Morgana says gently.

_ Yes I do,  _ Goro thinks very loudly.  _ I hate you so much, and I’m infuriated that it isn’t mutual. _

Kurusu sighs. “It’s a mess. He made Futaba and Haru orphans, and he tried to kill me, and god knows how many other people, and he sleeps in the same room as me every night. And every morning, I smile at him and he stares at me like he’s going to shoot me again.”

Morgana asks, “Then why are you doing this to yourself? Turn him in and get it over with.”

Kurusu makes an indignant noise. “Almost everyone he knows has failed him. I’m not going to be one of them. I’m not giving up on him.”

And Goro feels very, very cold all of a sudden. Kurusu is crying again.

Morgana makes a disgruntled noise. “You know what? I think you need to call Ryuji. And then go to sleep.”

Kurusu chuckles through his tears. “You’re encouraging me to talk to Ryuji? Who are you, and what have you done with Morgana?”

“I’m just saying that he always calms you down when you get like this!” Morgana snaps. He takes a deep breath before continuing, “Just put headphones in. I don’t want to hear his voice.”

“That’s more like it,” Kurusu says, presumably ruffling the cat’s fur, judging by the annoyed noise he makes.

Goro continues lying as still as he can while Kurusu talks on the phone. He’s speaking under his breath, so Goro isn’t forced to eavesdrop on this conversation as well.

He still feels cold.

* * *

When his phone rings, Goro nearly drops it. In the seconds it takes for him to recover and process the event, he almost misses the call entirely. At the last second, he manages to hit ‘accept’ and hiss into the microphone. “Landline.”

Within ten seconds, the yellow phone downstairs rings. Goro makes his way over to it, grateful that Boss is on a grocery run and not around to listen in. Even if he’s starting to think that the man wouldn’t actually do that.

“Sorry!” Takamaki chirps as soon as Goro picks up the phone. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Goro twirls the cord around his finger like he’s some kind of vapid valley girl. He doesn’t stop after realizing because it gives him something harmless to do with his free hand. “It’s fine. Just don’t do it again. Why are you calling so late?”

Takamaki laughs, and it sounds like bells. “I wanted to talk to you, duh! How are your ribs holding out?”

Goro says, “Better. As long as nobody swings a sledgehammer at my chest, I should be healed within a week.”

Just in time for the election results. If Takamaki knows, she doesn’t say anything on the subject. Instead, she exclaims, “That’s great! What’s the first thing you’re gonna do once they’re all back together?”

He chuckles. “I don’t know? Certainly nothing that would get them broken again, if that’s what you’re wondering. The last thing I need is to spend more time in the clinic.”

“I was just wondering if you’d made any plans! I think we should try to cook something together to celebrate,” Takamaki replies cheerfully.

Goro thinks of his silent promise to face the law at full force. He shakes his head and focuses on the phone call. “Ah. What in particular would we be cooking?”

Takamaki says, “No idea. That’s why I said ‘something.’ We could do crepes again, but I feel like you weren’t super into that.”

His horribly mangled crepes still haunt him. “Perhaps something else would be the best. I… am interested in trying new things.”

“That’s the spirit!” Takamaki responds.

Goro allows himself a tired, tinny laugh. “If you say so. This isn’t supposed to be a slight on you, but did you call for a reason? Or is this just a social call?”

Takamaki splutters awkwardly, because she’s a model, not an actress. “I! Um, well! I… I do have something I want to ask you. But you don’t have to answer me. I really did just want to check in. Mostly.”

“I see,” Goro says. He keeps his tone entirely neutral, because he hasn’t quite figured out how he feels about her potential ulterior motive. Maybe she just wants to know what brand of hair care products he normally buys.

She sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I… I know you said you’re uncomfortable with us being friends. But I do care about you. So I don’t want you to think that you’re just means to an end, or something.”

Goro goes quiet for a few moments, long enough that he can hear Takamaki’s breathing quicken on the other line. Why she is still extending her kindness is beyond him, but a weak little toy soldier in his chest wants to reach out for that frayed string of a connection. To have a relationship with someone that isn’t soaked in blood or professional courtesy.

He doesn’t have a reply for her, so he asks, “What was your question?”

“Do you actually hate Akira?” Takamaki asks. Her voice is shaking like she’s caught in a windstorm. “I know there’s some bad blood, but you two used to get along so well and all…”

The automatic answer is  _ What a stupid question, of course I hate him,  _ and the concise answer is  _ Unconditionally,  _ and the hard answer is  _ I’ve hated him from the first moment we ever locked eyes,  _ and the real answer is,  _ I don’t know,  _ and whatever answer he plans on giving Takamaki gets stuck in his throat.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says as his thoughts race through his head like dying fireflies. He wants to tell her. He wants to keep it all dead and buried within him. He wants to start a war where he is the only casualty. He wants to burn himself until he’s nothing, until he’s never existed at all. He wants  _ something _ but doesn’t know  _ what. _

“I…” he finally chokes out, “It’s complicated. Really complicated.”

Takamaki says, “I get it. I won’t ask you about it again.”

_ No, _ he wants to tell her,  _ That’s not what I mean.  _ But the words don’t come out. He just rasps into the receiver like he’s dying from smoke inhalation.

Takamaki makes a noise of discontent. “I’ll let you go. I don’t want to—”

“Wait,” Goro says frantically, closing his free hand around the cord. This is a long shot, and a stupid move, but there is a hole in his chest that he is desperate to have filled by  _ something, _ even if it’s foolish. Even if he knows she’ll eventually gouge out his heart and eat it raw and bleeding, because that is his fate in every universe. “Wait, don’t hang up yet.”

“Hm?”

Goro ignores how hot his eyes feel as he speaks. “I’d like to try being your friend. I’m not sure if it will work out, or if it’ll be worthwhile for you, but… but I want to try.”

Takamaki squeals so loud that he worries his eardrum will burst. “I’m so glad! Okay, I have to hit the road, but I’m totally coming to chill with you as soon as I can!”

He chuckles, relief washing over him like a tidal wave. “I can’t wait. Goodbye, Takamaki.”

“Ann!” she chirps.

Goro pauses for a moment. The weight of it is heavy on his shoulders. He takes a deep breath and swallows the stinging nettles in his mouth. 

“Goodbye, Ann.”

* * *

Goro dreams of the ocean.

He’s sitting on a beach towel under an umbrella, staring out at the water. The tide gently flows in and out, waves slapping the sand rhythmically. It’s calming. There’s nothing but open air for miles and miles from the shore. No ships, no annoying tourists, nothing. Not even a seagull.

That isn’t to say he’s alone here. Sakura is crouching in a tidepool, poking at whatever unlucky fish happen to be within arm’s reach. Kneeling near her is Kitagawa, halfway through building the most impressive sandcastle Goro has ever seen. They’re both talking at the rate of about a hundred miles an hour, but he can’t hear their conversation.

He can only hear the water.

Further up the beach, Ann and Niijima are eating ice cream. Some of it is smeared on Ann’s face, but it doesn’t look like she’s noticed. Niijima seems to be trying to point it out delicately, but is failing at every turn. They both look happy, though. 

It’s warm out. Goro positions himself under the umbrella and leans into the shadow as much as he can. It isn’t much reprieve, but something is better than nothing. The last thing he needs is to get sunburned. He’s sure nobody would ever let him live that down.

Down in the surf, Sakamoto is chasing Morgana around. Both of them are making a racket — though, Goro can’t actually make out a word they’re saying over the waves — but they seem to be having a good time. There’s no hostility between the two whatsoever. During his short lived time as a Phantom Thief, the pair of them were constantly sniping at each other.

“It’s so nice here,” says the person sitting next to him. Goro flinches, and doesn’t relax when he realizes that Kurusu is the one who spoke. He’s on his own towel, but isn’t hiding under the beach umbrella at all. Instead, he’s stretched out and basking in the hot sun.

“Indeed. I can’t believe we have the entire place to ourselves,” Goro says, because this is a dream. He could never participate in something so mundane in the real world. He would never be allowed.

Kurusu says, “It’s such a shame that Haru couldn’t make it. I really wanted her to be here with us.”

Goro frowns and surveys the beach. No matter where he looks, though, he can’t find Okumura anywhere. It feels like there’s a hole in this world, now that he’s realized it. The sun is no longer hot, and the sound of the water is blurry and unclear.

She should be here. Why is she missing? Is it because of him? She  _ did _ say she would never forgive him, but so did Sakura, and she is very clearly ten feet away from him and Kurusu. Is it because he refused to shake her hand? Is she that petty? No, that can’t be right either.

Seeing his confusion, Kurusu says, “You should make things right with her. I don’t think she’s ready for it at the moment, but you can’t just leave her hanging forever.”

“There’s no making things right with Okumura,” Goro says, not looking at anything in particular. His hands trace the grains of sand on his towel. “I killed her father in cold blood. She won’t forgive me, and I have no plans to apologize. She herself said that I can’t earn her good will.”

Kurusu laughs. “I never said you needed to be her best friend. But you should be receptive to her when she comes around. Maybe you don’t know it, but you’re one of us, Mister Crow. Us thieves have to stick together through the worst of it.”

Goro scowls. “Why are you lecturing me?”

“I’m not,” Kurusu says, staring up at the sky. He looks so calm that it’s infuriating. “You’re lecturing yourself. This  _ is _ a dream, after all.”

Goro snarls, “I hate you.”

“Do you?” Kurusu asks as his shit eating grin crawls onto his face.

When Goro shoots awake in Leblanc’s attic, the ocean no longer feels tangible. As he reaches for the traces of his dream, trying to bask in the details for one selfish moment longer, he finds it’s even further away than he believed it was at first.

Outside, he can see snow falling. The ballot count is in three days, and Goro has never been less ready for the future in his life.  



	4. we left footprints in the slush of ourselves

He’s not supposed to be sitting on the roof, but at this point, Goro’s desperate for fresh air. The nook he’s resting in is close enough to the propped open window that he can slip inside right away if he has to.

It’s a nice view. Yongen doesn’t have a lot going on during its busiest days, which is for the best. The last thing he needs is to be recognized by someone who isn’t housing him.

He shivers. It’s chilly this evening. Such is December in Tokyo, he muses, but it feels worse today. Perhaps he needs more layers on. Perhaps it’s the ice in his lungs. At the very least, it isn’t snowing yet today, but the clear skies are not the biggest comfort to him. Neither is last night’s snowflakes on the ground.

Goro’s fingers twitch inside his gloves. Maybe he should crawl back inside before he turns into a snowman. He shifts slightly in the nook, preparing to slip into the attic once more, when a large rock flies through the air and slams against the roof, barely missing his head.

“Eaugh!” he exclaims, scrambling to the point that he almost falls. He digs his fingers into the shingles and looks down at the street, shuddering as his vision swims. There’s someone standing in the alleyway, and he tugs the paper face mask up, hoping that with it and the ponytail, he won’t be recognized.

Actually, he’s still wearing his peacoat. He’s fucked.

“What the eff?” the person in the alley grumbles. Goro relaxes with the sudden recognition, before that recognition turns into exhaustion. Of course. He supposes he has to deal with this now. The bleached blond in the alley stares up at him with more confusion than ire. “The hell are you doing?”

“Hello, Sakamoto,” Goro greets, trying to keep his voice pleasant and level. “I could ask you the same question. That rock could have killed me.”

Sakamoto snaps, “I didn’t even know you were there! Look, I was just trying to hit the window. ‘S how I get Akira’s attention.”

Ah. Goro shakes out his wrists in hopes of getting circulation back in them. “He’s not here. He’s bothering a reporter in Shinjuku, last I heard.”

Sakamoto shakes his head. “Nah. I’m looking for you, asshole. Get down here. And don’t jump!”

“Well, now I have to,” Goro mutters. Amazingly, he hadn’t actually considered it until that moment. He watches Sakamoto for a moment, then swivels around and crawls back into the attic.

His warden, Morgana, is fast asleep on the bed. Goro creeps around him and down the stairs, feeling more than a little shifty as he gets to the ground floor. As such, Boss raises an eyebrow at him.

“Sakamoto’s here,” Goro says, by way of answering him. He moves back and forth on his feet, uncertainty pooling in his throat. Why on earth is Sakamoto here for  _ him,  _ anyways?

Boss adjusts his glasses. “I didn’t say anything. But don’t be out too late, you hear me? I’m not giving you a key to the shop.”

Goro bows, noting that it doesn’t hurt his ribs anymore. “Certainly. I’ll be back in time to wash up.”

Boss gives him a nod and a grunt. Goro’s been here long enough that he can tell it’s friendly, and slips out the front door. Sakamoto is waiting outside, leaning on the wall and bouncing his leg.

“Yo,” he says, raising his head. None of his usual anger is present, which is immediately unnerving. Goro folds his arms over his chest and skeptically observes him. 

Surely there’s a reason for this. Sakamoto wears his heart on his sleeve and doesn’t filter his thoughts, so maybe he can bluff through this and make it out on top.

“Let me guess,” Goro says, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice. “Today, you were the Phantom Thief nominated to spend time with me in hopes that I don’t snap and kill Kurusu.”

Sakamoto blanches. “How the hell do you know about that?! You some kind of mind reader?!”

“Ah, was that right?” Goro muses. How interesting.

Sakamoto waves his hand. “It’s not exactly like you said! But Akira asked us to reach out to you if we felt we could. That’s all.”

Well, that’s just ridiculous. Kurusu asking his friends to reach out? What purpose does that serve? 

...Does Ann  _ actually  _ care about his well-being, or was all her behaviour coerced? He tries to remember whether or not she’s a shitty liar and finds that he isn’t sure.

“So why are  _ you _ here?” Goro asks, trying to regain control of both the situation and himself. “You don’t seem the type to care about such things.”

Sakamoto scowls and bounces his leg. “Don’t think I’m doing this for your sake. I hate your guts, man.”

Goro smirks. “So this is what it’s like being Kurusu’s lapdog? Quite a sorry state of affairs.”

“Listen here, you piece of shit!” Sakamoto snaps. He takes a step forward, likely ready to swing a punch, before taking a deep breath and shoving his fists in his pockets. “No. ‘M not here to fight with you.”

Distantly, Goro recalls that of all the Phantom Thieves, Kurusu went to Sakamoto after a panic attack. Is it merely the privilege of being his best friend, or is the idiot before him concealing more than an ounce of emotional intelligence?

“I don’t follow,” is all Goro says, trying to act disinterested. Is it childish to be deeply interested in such a charade? What exactly is Kurusu getting at, having the other thieves waste their hours on him? Don’t they have more important things to do with their lives?

Sakamoto says, “Your ribs are healing, yeah?”

It all slides into place. Goro says, “You’ve come to break them again. I see. Well, don’t think I’ll hold back.”

“What?!” Sakamoto splutters. “No! Why do you always— No, that’s a dumb question.”

Goro blinks. “Why do I always what?”

Sakamoto looks down and drags his shoe in the gravel. “I was gonna ask why you always act like people are gonna hurt you for some reason, but… ain’t that your whole life?”

Goro doesn’t answer him. Something about the sympathy in his voice is enough to make him feel sick. Kurusu keeps strange company.

“Anyways. My leg broke in my first year,” Sakamoto says, like that’s the right way to continue this conversation. “Took a while to even walk right. I couldn’t work out like before, had to learn a ton of new techniques.”

Goro frowns. “Is this touching anecdote of yours going somewhere?”

Sakamoto scowls at him. “I dragged myself all the way out here to help you learn some stretches, and you act like this! I don’t even like you!”

There’s a surprise. Why would anyone like— Wait. What was that first part? Goro adjusts his mask. “You… want to help me with stretches?”

“Well, you’re probably all stupid sore from sleeping on that shitty couch,” Sakamoto replies, “But doing normal stuff is a one way ticket back to the clinic.”

Goro says softly, “I’m… surprised you thought of that.” This is weird.  _ Sakamoto _ is weird.

The blond shrugs. “Wasn’t easy. Had to get some help from Makoto too. You ready?”

At this point, he kind of has to be. Goro offers him a resigned nod, to which Sakamoto grins bright enough to make the sun look dim. 

They don’t go very far from Leblanc. There’s a shaded alleyway a couple streets over with enough space for them to move about without touching each other. Sakamoto easily takes the lead and helps Goro with what he says are the basics of basics. It’s the slightest bit taxing, but Goro refuses to admit that, and continues to reach above his head.

After about an hour, Sakamoto says, “‘Kay, that’s enough for tonight. It’s getting pretty late, and I’m cold. How was it?”

“Simple enough,” Goro answers, holding back a wince. The idea is that if he keeps doing these exercises, he’ll improve in the long run, but  _ god  _ he’s tired.

Sakamoto claps an arm on his shoulder, but pulls it back as soon as he realizes what he’s done. It’s a gesture far too affectionate for their current relationship. Admittedly, though, Goro doesn’t completely hate it.

They make their way back to Leblanc in silence. When they enter the cafe, Sakamoto slumps down in the booth closest to the door and Goro makes his way to the sink. He can see the dishes piled up, and pushes up his sleeves in preparation.

Upon seeing him, though, Boss shakes his head. “Your friend’s here. The dishes will wait. It’s not like this is the hottest joint in Tokyo.”

Goro opens his mouth. To say that Sakamoto isn’t his friend, that he needs to make himself useful by doing  _ something,  _ that Leblanc hasn’t had a customer in two days. Instead of saying anything like that, he awkwardly retreats to the booth.

Sakamoto doesn’t talk, at first. He bounces his leg and draws circles on the table with his finger. Boss brings over two glasses; decaf coffee for Goro and soda for Sakamoto. They don’t even really look at each other, but Goro sneaks glances at the blond out the corner of his eye.

Finally, Sakamoto says, “I can’t forgive you, and I’m not your friend. So don’t get any ideas.”

“I didn’t have any in the first place,” Goro says. This is what he expected. This is the way things should be between them.

Sakamoto shrugs. “You’re all chill with Ann all of a sudden, so I’m just putting the truth on the table. You fucked up big time, and I’m not letting you off easy.”

Goro says, “Believe me, I’m aware of this.”

“Are you? That’s new,” Sakamoto says, sipping from his glass. He spills a bit of soda on his shirt and scowls.

Goro leans back and rests the back of his neck on the booth seat. “My brain has finally rotted out completely. Aren’t you excited?”

Sakamoto rolls his eyes. “Love the biting sarcasm, man.”

“I could very well say the same to you,” Goro points out.

Sakamoto stares at him for a couple seconds, then takes another swing of his soda, like it’s the only thing keeping him sane. It might very well be. “Look. You’re one of Shido’s victims too. And that’s all messed up in it’s own right. But you still shot my best friend in the head.”

Technically, he didn’t actually do that. But the intention was there, and that counts more than the reality of it at this point. 

“You shot Akira. You killed Haru’s dad. You pushed Futaba’s mom into traffic,” Sakamoto continues quietly, “Sure, you didn’t deserve what happened to you, but I can’t forgive that shit.”

“I didn’t push Wakaba Isshiki into traffic,” Goro says, raising an eyebrow. “I killed her shadow. The traffic accident was a byproduct of her mental shutdown.”

Sakamoto taps his fingers on the table. “Same difference. You might as well have.”

That isn’t something he can argue with, because Sakamoto isn’t entirely wrong. Instead, he pictures the porcelain walls of her Palace, and tries not to gag when the memory of how her shadow screamed bursts through his head.

“You okay, dude?” Sakamoto asks. His voice causes all the porcelain to shatter at once, as though it was struck by lightning.

Goro digs his nails into the table in order to focus. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

To his surprise, Sakamoto laughs and cocks his head back. “Doesn’t mean that I want you to die, dumbass. Don’t you remember? I didn’t carry you out of Shido’s Palace on my back for nothing.”

Goro, who was not aware of that fact until this second, quietly picks up his coffee and sips at it to avoid having to reply. It’s gone cold in the time they’ve been sitting here, and it takes all his strength not to spit it out.

“You should see the look on your face right now,” Sakamoto adds, when Goro finally swallows the cold coffee. 

He pushes the mug towards the blond, an odd smile beginning to play on his lips. “Perhaps you would be willing to enlighten me.”

* * *

The longer that Goro sits inside the limousine, the more he feels like he is going to be murdered any second.

His clothes are clean, so he won’t dirty the soft seats or the carpets, and he is taking up as little space as possible, but it still seems like his time is coming to an end. Like he’s being driven to the mountains to be brought to his knees and shot point blank in the back of his head.

Or maybe he’s being ridiculous, and all this anxiety is rooted in his proximity to Haru Okumura. He honestly can’t tell.

She’s sitting directly across from him, sipping tea in a way that would look pretentious if she was anyone else. Her eyes are closed, and she’s dressed as neat as a pin. It’s unnerving.

“We’re almost there,” she says, as though reading his thoughts. Hell, maybe she can. Maybe her expertise in psychokinesis extends beyond the Metaverse. That doesn’t make this any better.

Goro doesn’t look out the tinted windows, not wanting a preview of his demise. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, and makes a small noise of acknowledgement. His voice is heavy in his throat.

He hasn’t seen Okumura at all since the last time the ragtag thieves met up at Leblanc. The others frequent the cafe, to the point where he’ll at least hear one of them every single day. They’re always there for Kurusu, which is fine. He doesn’t care that more often than not, the thieves aren’t interested in his wellbeing. He’s not lonely.

So when she showed up in the cafe right on the dot of nine AM and asked to see him, offering a warm smile to Boss that  _ must _ have been laced with arsenic, Goro had to make a detour to the tiny bathroom sink and throw up. He’s feeling a bit better now, but he’s refused all her offers of tea. Just in case. 

Almost there. She’s not going to kill him. Goro repeats those words to himself over and over again, even if he doesn’t actually believe it. If she  _ does  _ kill him, Boss knows she was the last person to see him, so—

She’s not going to kill him. Goro clenches his jaw and digs his teeth into his lips. He brushes the not quite healed slit, and inhales sharply through his nose. Okumura notices none of this. Or if she does, she does an excellent job of pretending.

The car comes to a halt. They undo their seatbelts at the same time, but when Okumura doesn’t open the door, Goro doesn’t either. He doesn’t know what they’re waiting for, but he’s not going to make an idiot out of himself by making the first move.

Apparently, it’s the driver. The man comes around the side of the car and opens the door for the both of them. Okumura gets out all poised and dainty, while Goro bangs his foot as he climbs out and barely holds back a curse.

They’re just outside Okumura’s house. It’s not quite large enough to technically qualify as a mansion, but it’s the nicest building Goro’s been to in a very long time. Something about it feels wrong. Unsettling.

Maybe it’s the institution within him, the one he never really escaped. A house like this doesn’t belong to real people. Real people live with tile floors that don’t come clean no matter how hard you scrub them, with moth eaten blankets and mattresses, with all your possessions in a tiny cloth bag that you can hide on your clothes when the caretakers come looking, with vermin lurking at your heels.

Even his apartment had taken months to get used to, and he was never fully comfortable with it, like one wrong move would have it fall into pieces before his eyes. He can’t imagine what a house like this would do to him.

“Akechi-kun? Are you coming?” Okumura asks. He blinks, and finds that she’s already standing on the front steps with a paper parcel under her arm, door already open. He hasn’t moved an inch.

Breathe. He tightens his fists and follows after her, struggling not to gasp when he sees the inside of her house. The plush carpeting and shiny chandeliers are all too much right off the bat. It doesn’t help that the contemporary furniture must have cost millions of yen.

It’s suffocating. Okumura doesn’t react to his discomfort.

“Follow me,” she says softly. He hates how delicate and airy her voice is. “We’re going up to the roof.”

She’s not going to push him off the roof. Goro nods tightly and doesn’t look too closely at any of the ornaments decorating her home as he follows her up two flights of stairs. His nails dig into the palms of his hands as he goes, but it’s fine. It’s all fine.

He isn’t sure what he expected to see on the roof, but it wasn’t gardening supplies. Vaguely, he recalls a memory of this past, endless November, and Niijima complementing Okumura on her home grown vegetables. It doesn’t quite fit in his head, though. She seems too refined for this work.

Okumura puts on a pair of gardening gloves, and points at a second pair that is sitting against a bag of fertilizer. “You can wear those.”

Goro blinks. “I suppose I can, yes. What exactly are we doing here?”

She sets down the parcel she was carrying and unwraps it. It’s filled with small plants. “Planting these in proper beds. They won’t grow much more in these pots.”

“It’s December,” Goro says plainly.

Okumura nods. “Yes, it is. The seventeenth, in fact.”

“It’s supposed to snow tonight,” Goro says, still trying to parse her initial statement. He doesn’t even see any planters out here.

Okumura smiles. It’s frightening. “We’re not planting them outside. I have the space downstairs. I just keep my supplies up here.”

Ah. Well, now he just feels foolish. Goro picks up the gardening gloves and pulls them on over his normal gloves. He can feel small clumps of dirt inside them. He feels like it defeats the purpose.

Okumura gathers some small bags and a gardening fork, before going back down the stairs. Goro takes the parcel of plants with him when he follows her.

She leads him through a maze of rooms too fancy to keep track of, and finally stops in an open atrium. There are a few flowerbeds here, sitting right in front of the large windows, and they only look a little bit odd.

They work in silence. Okumura shows him how to move the plants without harming them, and he follows her instructions to the T. Both of them move quietly, hands doing all the talking for them. Something about sinking his fingers into the dark soil feels enriching. Familiar.

He wonders if his mother liked to garden, and finds he can’t remember one way or another. Maybe once upon a time, it would’ve hardened his resolve to rise up against Shido and finally get revenge. Right now, it just makes him feel very tired. 

The dirt smells like home in a way he’s uncomfortable digging for the root of. He takes extra care not to tear the delicate leaves of whatever the hell it is they’re planting. He has no idea. Nor has he figured out why exactly she’s brought him along to a task like this. Unless this is all part of her convoluted plan to—

“The world is not as cruel of a place as you think it is,” Okumura says, without looking at him.

Ah, so she  _ can _ read his thoughts. Lovely. He presses his hands against the soil a little more forcefully than he intended. “What are you talking about?”

“This isn’t a punishment,” she says. Her voice is gentle and demure, but it carries the weight of an exhausted soul. She still isn’t looking at him. “I’m not going to hurt you. I know it may come as a shock to you, but I don’t wish you any harm.”

Goro stops even trying to focus on the plants and turns to face her. They’re both kneeling on her floor in clothes that don’t seem quite equipped for gardening, and nothing about this situation feels real. So, he grapples onto the most real thing he’s aware of. “I killed your father.”

“You did,” Okumura says, drawing in a slow breath. She’s still looking at the plants, but is no longer tucking them into the flowerbeds. “Neither of us can run from that. But that doesn’t mean I want you to suffer.”

Something about all this doesn’t add up. Goro says, “And you said that you’ll never forgive me. Nor should I attempt to give you some kind of bullshit apology, because it would be insulting.”

Okumura sighs again. There are dark circles under her eyes that don’t vanish with concealer. “There is nothing that anyone can do to bring my father back. This pain can never be forgiven, only lived with.”

Goro arches an eyebrow as he replies, “I’m not sure I understand. Don’t you hate me?”

“Don’t be deceived. I hate you very much,” Okumura says, finally turning and looking into his eyes. It’s enough to make his vision flash, and nearly makes him miss the rest of her sentence. “But we are also more similar than I like to admit.”

“We are nothing alike,” Goro asserts, crossing his arms over his chest. How can she say something so ridiculous? Aside from being the same age, he sees nothing in Haru Okumura that he does in himself.

She says, “Our mothers died when we were very young, and we lost our fathers to something bigger than ourselves. We know first hand how cruel the whims of fate can be, but you more than I. We don’t remember at what point our lives changed irreversibly, but we’re now trapped in the outcome of that fact.

“We have been conditioned to feel inferior to everyone, but especially the adults who rule our lives. We’ve resigned ourselves to fit into the plastic moulds that were provided for us, to sit up straight and smile for the cameras as someone makes a deal behind the scenes for our youth, because neither of us truly have it in us to fight back and ruin what we’ve spent our whole lives cultivating. We sit back in the bloodbath trying to drown us, because it’s better than being nothing but the blood itself.

“And underneath it all, we’re  _ angry.  _ But we’ve never been allowed to be, never been allowed to be anything but the shiny little photographs with bright smiles, so it festers and builds inside of us until it burns us to the ground, and we’re left in the ashes of everything we’ve ever been.”

Goro stares into her eyes, rattled by how quickly she tore him apart. “Okumura, I—“

“Haru,” she replies, and smiles so easily that it makes his lungs hurt. “Please. I do not forgive you, but it gets better. And all of us will be with you, each step of the way.”

She extends her left hand once more. This time, Goro shakes it, and the brambles in his throat don’t try to choke him. Maybe this is peace. Maybe this is how it feels to move on. It’s a new experience for him, but one he’s almost addicted to.

From there, they silently return to the task at hand, which he admittedly forgot about in the moment. It seems to go smoother now, with some of the air cleared between them.

“What exactly are we replanting?” Goro asks, finally having the guts to speak first.

Okumura — Haru? No, that’s too much too fast, and even with her permission, it feels uncomfortable even in his thoughts. It’s wrong now, and perhaps wrong forever, if he’s being honest. Better for the both of them to be distant — looks completely genuine as her smile lights up the room. 

“Daffodils. I think they’re fitting.”

* * *

He dreams of bleeding to death in the engine room. He’s slumped against the wall, and it’s so painful that he wishes the cognition would shoot him again to get it over with. As it is, he can’t reach his own weapon so that he can finish the job himself.

Every breath feels like he’s fighting a losing war against the entire universe. It’s futile, and every second of whatever remains of his life is more and more like an eternity. It’s not even worth it to keep his eyes open anymore; he can barely twitch his fingers as he lies in a pool of his own blood. 

When he surges awake, eyes wide and heart pounding, Goro sucks in air and  _ begs _ that this is real, that he’s alive and breathing in Leblanc’s attic and not sinking under the water in the mind’s endless sea.

In the dark, he locks eyes with Morgana, who deftly jumps from Kurusu’s futon to the couch, landing on Goro’s legs. The cat walks closer and curls up on his chest, purring softly.

He lies there, surrounded by warmth and the rumbling of a cat. In the moment before he returns to a dreamless sleep, Goro almost feels whole.

* * *

“Well, aren’t you a medical miracle.”

Dr. Takemi steps back, concluding her examination with a self-satisfied smirk. It’s not completely undeserved; Goro had been rather far off the deep end when he was forcefully carried into her clinic. It’s strange to think that it’s all over now. Each of his broken ribs is happily healed.

She scribbles down her final observations, then says, “You do still have a small fever. Nothing that lots of water and rest won’t cure, though.”

“I’ve had a fever for years,” Goro replies, his eyes absently catching on the light blue lights on the wall. After all this, he’s still tired. “At this point, I’ve accepted it.”

Dr. Takemi hands him a glass of water out of the blue. Goro stares at her, but slowly drinks it. What other choice does he have, especially with that piercing stare of hers?

While he does that, she asks, “You want a lollipop?”

It’s an unexpected question, but one that he actually ponders. Ridiculous as it is, his life is already in pieces. He might as well accept. He nods, and she returns with a little pink lollipop as soon as he’s done his water. It’s strawberry.

As he indulges in the cheap candy, Dr. Takemi says, “You’ll still need to take it easy. Any raucous activity, or duels to the death need to be postponed so you don’t end up back here. For all intents and purposes, though, you’re all better. That should be it.”

“Thank you very much,” Goro says, and he means it this time. He can’t imagine what a terrible patient he must have been. “I appreciate your relentless dedication.”

She laughs. “Please. I did my job. If you want to thank anyone, thank my little guinea pig for never giving up on you. From everything I heard, you’d be in a lot of trouble without his help.”

There’s a lump in his throat that he cannot easily swallow. She’s right, though. Without Kurusu, someone in Shido’s pocket would have scooped him up and killed him off for real, if he hadn’t died in the engine room in the first place. He really does owe  _ everything _ to him. God damn it. Aloud, he asks, “Has he been complaining about me?”

“I’m a general practitioner, not a psychiatrist,” Dr. Takemi points out, tapping her pen on her clipboard. “But speaking of, you should think about getting one of those. I think it would help.”

Goro says, “Would you believe that you’re not the first to suggest that?”

“Of course I’m not. Sojiro brought it up, didn’t he? He’ll deny it if someone asks, but that man is a bleeding heart for kids in need,” Dr. Takemi says, unable to keep a smile off her face. Honestly, considering Sakura, Kurusu, and the rest of the thieves, it checks out. 

“Yes, it was him,” Goro says, because he’s earned himself a trip to a cage if he admits it was actually Kurusu’s magical talking cat. Go figure.

Dr. Takemi smiles. She scribbles something down, then tears off the bit of paper and hands it to him, along with a small bottle. “If your fever doesn’t go down in two days, take this. I’m sure you don’t want to end up with some kind of infection this time of year.”

Ah, it’s almost Christmas, isn’t it. Goro pockets both items dutifully. “I don’t celebrate, actually.”

She chuckles lightly. “Me either. But who wants to be sick any time of year?”

A good point. Goro gets off the exam table and bows to her. She just rolls her eyes.

“Go show your appreciation to my guinea pig. Even if you hate him, you definitely owe him,” Dr. Takemi says, ushering him towards the door.

In that moment, something bursts in his chest, and it comes spilling out of his mouth like a flood. “I don’t hate Kurusu.”

For a moment, they stare at each other, and the reality of his statement finally sinks in. Goro’s mouth feels raw and faintly like he swallowed metal. Even in his own mind, he doesn’t have the strength to deny the statement. Not anymore.

Then, Dr. Takemi says, “I’m not the one who needs to hear that. Go on, he’s in the waiting room.”

She pushes him out the door before he can protest in the slightest. Just like last time, Kurusu and Sakura are waiting for him; the former leaning on the wall and the latter crouching on a chair.

The next part, however, is much different.

“Hey! You’re here!” Sakura cries out, literally jumping up and into the air with a grin on her face. “All those healing potions finally did the trick, huh?”

Goro says, “I suppose I am.” It’s an odd feeling, to be better. And it begs the question of  _ What Now? _

Kurusu’s smile is warm, and bears no trace of smugness. He’s unsure if it ever did. “I’m really glad to hear it.”

Stranger than being better is believing Kurusu’s words. Goro thinks it might be better to keep that to himself, though.

Sakura pumps her fist. “We should head back to Leblanc! Everyone else is on their way.”

“On their way for what?” Goro asks.

“Election results are in an hour,” Kurusu replies, hands deep in his pockets. “If we get anything from Shido, it’ll be then.”

Right. This is what everything lead up to. It makes his stomach hurt. Goro’s not ready for it, in all honesty. What happens if the change of heart fails? What happens if it  _ doesn’t? _

“Before we go,” Goro says carefully, trying to test the waters, “I need to talk to Kurusu. Alone.”

Sakura doesn’t look perturbed at all. “‘Kay! I’ll run ahead and let Sojiro know to get the curry ready.” She rushes out the door without another word, leaving the two boys alone in the clinic.

Kurusu fiddles with the ends of his hair. “Is this a confession?”

“In a sense,” Goro admits, focusing on how shiny the counter is, rather than who is in front of him. Now is not the time to freeze up. Now is the time to live with himself. “I don’t hate you, Kurusu. I don’t think I ever did.”

Kurusu’s eyes get wide beneath his fake glasses. “Really? You’ve made the opposite pretty clear to me before.”

“Take this seriously,” Goro says sharply, folding his arms around his chest.

Kurusu’s voice is soft. “I am. More than you know.”

Right. Goro needs to work on his evaluations of other people, doesn’t he? “I was jealous. Jealous of how you could arrive in Tokyo out of the blue with a criminal record, and immediately develop a genuine support system with all these  _ random _ people. I’m always hearing about some new character you’ve befriended.

“Meanwhile, I spent years perfectly curating myself so I could survive in the wolves’ den. If I ever showed weakness to any adult, I would be better off dead to Shido. I had to be flawless so I could be  _ respected.  _ And even with all that effort, nobody ever wanted me. I was desperate for someone who could see me, instead of seeing through me. And not a single person ever looked past the superficial.”

_ ‘Except for you’  _ hangs in the air between them, unsaid. He’s certain that Kurusu can hear it anyways.

Kurusu says quietly, “If I had to guess, I think it’s because you were never honest with anyone. Not even yourself. Nobody got close because they couldn’t pierce your Detective Prince facade.”

“You did,” Goro says, wincing as he fails to bite back the words in time. “You knew the whole time. You walked up to me and suddenly  _ knew _ everything.”

Kurusu shrugs. “I read the walkthrough. No, but that’s just the kind of person I am. Ask anyone.”

He doesn’t have to. He already knows this is true. So instead, Goro swallows the very last of his pride and opens up his skeleton for the birds to pick at. “The day we sent the calling card. There was a spark in your eyes. When you invited me to stay behind and play chess with you, I…”

Kurusu doesn’t pressure him to continue. Goro digs his fingers into his arm and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I thought of the gun in my pocket, and realized I was going to miss you,” he murmurs. It feels like a betrayal of the person he’s been since his mother died, but Goro has never been more holy.

Belatedly, he realizes that Kurusu is wiping his eyes. “Akechi… Thank you. I promise that saving you was worth it in every respect.”

And just like that, weight lifts up off his shoulders. In his head, he hears a voice.  _ ‘I see you have finally freed yourself from your chains.’ _

Robin Hood’s voice is startling after so long. He’s not alone either, Goro can feel Loki pulsing quietly alongside him. After all these weeks of fear and loathing, he can finally straighten his back.

_ ‘Took you long enough,’  _ he responds. He can’t find a way to express the sheer relief within him, though.

Kurusu asks, “Did something happen? You’re smiling.”

Is he? That’s new. Goro unfolds his arms and says, “I believe the others are waiting for us. Shall we?”

* * *

Masayoshi Shido wins the vote by a landslide, which is unfortunate but not terribly surprising. It doesn’t stop Sakamoto from booing, though. Niijima shushes him, and they wait.

It doesn’t feel real, listening to Shido confess to all these crimes. Something about it is fuzzy, like a dream. Not even a nightmare. Just a dream.

This is his father, his father who should be on his knees because Goro revealed the truth of their relationship. Everything he fought for is gone, isn’t it? He doesn’t feel satisfied. Evidently, though, neither do his companions.

(Friends?)

“This is bullshit,” Sakamoto says, slamming his fist on the table. “Like, that can’t be it!”

Ann adds, “People aren’t reacting the way we thought. There should be uproar!”

Sakura says, “It’s the same online. People are just asking if he’s feeling okay. He confessed to being the culprit behind the mental shutdowns!”

Goro does not look at anyone. This is not victory.

“We have to do something,” Okumura says firmly, “I won’t let him get away after all of this.”

Niijima sighs and closes her eyes. “My sister is already preparing a case against him. Right now, we just have to pray that it will be enough.”

Kitagawa looks downcast. “While I agree, Haru is correct too. Perhaps there is something more we can do in the interim. A final nail in the coffin.”

Goro knows what they could do. If Sae had a decisive witness to testify against Shido, a witness who knew every inner machination of his spiderweb, then her job would be  _ much _ easier. He doesn’t have it in him to say that aloud, though. Not yet.

“You kids should be focusing on your education for the time being,” Boss says, passing second helpings of curry around. “Let someone else do the heavy lifting for a change. I don’t think Akira’s done any of the study packets you’ve been bringing him.”

Kurusu lifts one finger in protest. “Not true. I did one of them.”

“And I helped!” Morgana pipes up from his place on Okumura’s lap.

Ann says, “But I brought you seventeen.”

“Snitch,” Kurusu replies, but laughs anyway.

Sakamoto groans. “I bet it doesn’t matter at all. He’s always top of the year.”

Morgana chirps, “Unlike you.”

“Mona-chan,” Okumura says fiercely, looking down at him with as much annoyance as she can muster. “Don’t be rude.”

While the other thieves share a chuckle, Goro whispers, “What about me? What should I do?”

Kurusu hums softly. “Good question. I don’t know if it’s safe to release you into the world. You’re probably as much of an issue to the Prosecutor’s Office as Shido is.”

From his space behind the counter, Boss says, “You were still drifting in and out of consciousness in the clinic when this happened, but some of Shido’s guys in suits showed up to search the place and drag me off.”

“It was so scary!” Sakura pipes up, worry shining in her eyes. “The place was in shambles when we got back.”

Boss says, “Sure was. And if they’d found Akechi all sequestered in my attic, I think we’d all be dead.”

That sounds about right. Thank whatever powers above might be that Boss is still breathing.

Kurusu shrugs. “So we might need to hold you captive a bit longer. Just until Makoto’s sister can get Shido to trial. Can you live with that?”

“I think so, Kurusu,” Goro says, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of coffee in the air. 

“Akira,” he says, smiling. There’s that spark in his eyes again. “We’ve been through enough, haven’t we?”

Goro’s throat grows dry. “I suppose so. Akira.”

It sounds peculiar coming out of his mouth, but Akira’s smile makes it all worth it.

The rest of the thieves settle into idle chatter about classes and studying, while Goro finds himself drawn to the television once again. Shido’s face is on screens all over Tokyo, and it makes his heart heavy in his chest.

Shido, he supposes, is a fever he has learned to live with. A stressful nightmare that’s left him so exhausted at every turn that he doesn’t know what it’s like to be without it. If Shido is finally put away for his countless crimes, what is he going to do?

Until a couple weeks ago, Goro’s answer would have been to kill himself. But as he sits here in Leblanc with a plate of curry awkwardly balanced on his lap, listening to the conversation and laughter of the people around him, it strikes him very hard that he does not want to die at all.

_ ‘What  _ do  _ you want?’  _ Robin Hood asks, not unkindly.

Goro leans back in his seat. He has time to figure that out.

* * *

When Goro pokes his head downstairs and faces an empty cafe, Boss beckons to him with a curious look on his face. He comes up to the bar, wondering what this could possibly be about.

There’s been no change to the public’s opinion of Shido in the days since the ballot count. It’s sickening.

Boss pours him a cup of coffee, exactly the way he likes it. “I can’t believe you didn’t go with them. For their last job.”

Goro had sat in on the previous night’s meeting, where the thieves had decided that the only way to move forward was to steal the public’s heart, but hadn’t contributed very much.

“Seemed like you’d want to be with them when they erased that other world. Or whatever it is they’re doing. Beats me,” Boss says, lighting a cigarette.

Goro takes a sip of the coffee. “I’m not one of them. Of course I wouldn’t go with them. It would be an intrusion.”

Boss arches an eyebrow. “I’m old, not senile. You think I haven’t watched each and every one of those kids spend time with you of their own free will? You’re just as much a Phantom Thief as my kids are.”

_ ‘Maybe you don’t know it, but you’re one of us’  _ the Akira from his dream reminds him. It hits him so suddenly that he nearly chokes on his coffee. This is what he wants. Maybe what he’s always wanted. 

Niijima was right. He really did hope they could save him.

“But it’s too late now,” Goro points out. “They left already. All either of us can do is wait and hope for the best.”

Boss taps ash off his cigarette. “It was only about twenty minutes ago, and they still had to collect last second supplies. You could make it.”

Twenty minutes. Goro practically knocks the stool he was sitting on over as he jumps to his feet and scrambles for the door. He shouts over his shoulder, “Thank you!” and sprints before he can hear the reply.

He’s never run this fast in his life, he thinks. Nobody pays any mind to the strange teenager pushing his way through the streets like he’ll die if he stops. He just might.

Goro practically bursts into Mementos, his clothes flashing into his Black Mask attire almost instantly. It makes sense; he’s not hiding anymore. And it will make tearing through the floors much easier.

By the time he reaches the end of Sheriruth, he’s aching, but he pushes forward. The door to the depths is open already, so he hasn’t missed them. He sucks in a breath and sprints down the escalator, hoping it isn’t too late.

Down at the very end of the path is a large group huddling around a very big door. Goro quickens his pace.

“But it only opens from this side,” Sakura is saying, tapping at a little screen on her wrist. “Once we go in there, we’re not coming back out.”

Akira tugs on his gloves. “We have no other choice. Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Goro screams at the top of his lungs, cupping his hands around his mouth in hopes of amplifying himself. “Wait!”

The others spin around. Ann clasps her hands and beams. “Crow! You’re here too!”

Goro skids to a halt in front of them, catching his breath best he can. Sakamoto claps him on the back. The Phantom Thieves are looking at him with open joy. Not even Okumura is hiding malice within her.

“I don’t suppose…” he begins slowly, still having trouble breathing, “that you have room for one more?”

Niijima smiles. “Of course we do. Come on.”

Akira adds, “We weren’t sure if you’d want to come with us. Sorry for making you run all the way here.”

“It’s good exercise,” Goro says, chuckling lightly. “Thank you. All of you.”

“I’m glad to have you on our side,” Okumura says gently. Even with the mask over her face, he can tell she means it.

Kitagawa passes him one of the many drinks from the inventory the thieves have built up, which he gratefully accepts. Feeling revitalized, he smiles at them.

Morgana huffs. “Let’s not wait around here too long. I can feel some very strong Shadows nearby.”

Because above everything else, they have a mission. To save the people from themselves. And Goro will not allow himself to be left behind.

Akira puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go, then. All of us.”

And more at peace than he’s ever been in his life, Goro Akechi steps through the door into the heart of Tokyo with conviction, purpose, and all of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done!
> 
> -Would you believe that when I started, I thought this would only be 5k? I don't.  
> -Between finishing and posting this, my friend pointed out to me that I somehow wrote an entire novel in two months (as well as some other stuff) all because. I really like Goro Akechi and I'm still mad about how Atlus treated him (and. every character in this game actually)  
> -Special thanks to Sil for letting me bitch about this fic constantly (check out their works [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soniagiris/pseuds/soniagiris)), and to everyone reading this! The support is greatly appreciated.  
> -Daffodils symbolize new beginnings.


End file.
